Home Road
by Mirrordance
Summary: “Help me!” Dean screamed,tears falling down the side of his face. The last time those tears fell like this was exactly a year ago,when his brother died in his arms. The memory strengthened him. Sam dead in his arms,that was hell. This...this is nothing.
1. Chapter 1

Author: Mirrordance

Title: Home Road

Summary: The brothers were so different sometimes. Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-- _Let the world end. Leave me alone. _That loudly unspoken _I wish I was dead_. Sam was different. He had murder in his eyes. Post-NRFTW and Sam finds a way to save his brother.

**Note: **Thanks to all who read and reviewed **"One Week,"** especially PADavis, nannon, Liquorish, zuimar and Stoneage Woman. You guys rule and are as encouraging as always. I can't seem to tickle readers into reviewing me in this fan-verse so every encouraging word counts. **Massive thanks** :) I'm still working on that story, but I thought I could relax a bit since Chapter One can stand on its own. Besides, after watching the finale, I guess I just couldn't resist trying to think of some sort of continuation, just to tide me over 'til the series resumes in the fall. So there :) Hope you all enjoy this one. C &C's as welcome as always!

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Home Road

" " "

1

" " "

The clocks have chimed to usher in midnight, that slim line that held the difference between someone's last night and someone else's new day. Who would have suspected the weight of that third hand, perched at the very edge of the 59th second, holding the difference between life and death...

It made Bobby Singer run as if his tail were on fire. Run, like a suicidal madman hacking his way across a sea of stunned demons who disbelieved his nerve, almost as much as he disbelieved it himself.

_I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming..._

And then he stopped at the door of the beautiful suburban house, where two young men he had loved like sons fought for their lives. He was breathless, surprised at success for a moment, allowing himself to believe, _maybe, maybe we can win..._

Suddenly, the quiet, erratic buzzing and sputtering of the water sprinklers on the lawn died down. He turned, horrified, behind him at the demons that were suddenly in a position to attack, no longer hindered by holy water.

Except they didn't, and in a macabre chorus of open mouths and inhuman screaming, black smoke shot up to the skies, and then bodies flopped down on the ground like a fallen who's-who of the people-in-your-neighborhood.

Dead silence.

Unnerving quiet.

The demons have left. That's what it meant, right? That must be what it meant. Why would they leave if Lilith wasn't killed? Have the Winchesters, again, dodged another bullet?

"Sam?" Bobby called out, as he considered kicking at the door, before deciding to just turn the knob and push it inward, "Dean?"

It was quieter outside than in. There was a clattering of miscellany in the... kitchen, Bobby guessed, by the sounds of plates crashing and the dully-stinky smell of hastily discarded food. He raised up his gun, and cautiously stepped toward the door.

"Sam?" he asked, finding the taller Winchester squatting on the ground before the refrigerator, ransacking it, just throwing trays and plates and racks over his shoulder. Leftover turkey, bottles of Sunny-D, bags of vegetables and fruits, milk and eggs, nothing was spared. He grabbed a half-filled bottle of champagne, chugged its contents in like, two seconds, then threw it over his shoulder too. Did the same with a bottle of red wine.

_This is bad._

"Sam," Bobby said, softly, as he stepped forward, "Son, what the hell are you doing? And where's your brother?"

"There," came the grunting, distracted and fairly vague reply, "I called 911, but they couldn't raise anyone nearby. Lilith messed around with this town, when she left I think they all did. Nearest ambulance is coming from the next town. They will be here in fifteen minutes, so we have some time to get everything ready. Help me, Bobby."

"She left?" Bobby asked, moving beside Sam, as the younger hunter cleared the refrigerator, "Ambulance? Is Dean all right?"

Sam looked up at him hotly, with crinkled, sarcastic eyes. Red eyes, Bobby saw, but so, so inhumanly _dry_. "No, Bobby, he's dead. Now help me."

"Dead--" Bobby said, turning on his heel, determined to head off to find Dean and see for himself, except Sam grabbed him firmly by the arm. God, his grip was unyielding, and so, so inhumanly _steady_.

"Nothing you can do for him in there," Sam said, letting go, and looking at his handiwork. He stood up and Bobby reflected grimly, with cold hands, that the fricking, industrial-grade, Martha-Stewart-esque fridge was so huge it could hold a man...

"There's a convenience store down the road," Sam said, fishing in his pocket, "Take the Impala, it'll go faster. I need as much ice as you can get."

Bobby numbly took the keys from Sam, and found them sticky and red-streaked. Blood. _Dean's_, he realized.

"Sam," Bobby began, voice shaking, "If he's dead--"

"If he's dead there isn't anything anyone can do to help him," Sam said, quickly, "Is that it? Tell you what, Bobby, you're wrong but I don't have the time to talk about it right now. Please. Please. Do what I ask, trust me for now, I need you. I _need_ you. If he's dead then none of this could hurt, right? The worst that could happen is he stays dead, so just do as I ask for now. Please."

Bobby stared at him. God, he was scared, and he did not scare easy. The last time he felt like this was looking at Dean, the Dean after Sam had died, exactly one year ago. They were so different sometimes, these Winchester brothers. The devastation was plain to see on both faces, sure, but Dean's was lethal silence, and in afterthought, an inextricable sense of _suicide_. Let the world end. Leave me alone. And that unspoken _I wish I was dead_.

Sam was different. He had _murder_ written on his stern face.

Bobby did not know what he feared more. He did not know if to follow along with Sam on this one was the right thing to do. As a matter of fact, he realized, he knew very little about very few things. What he did know was that all the times he had worked with the brothers, things somehow turned all right, even for just a little while. Dean's deal brought his brother back, didn't it? He had no idea what Sam was thinking, but the kid was sharp, and they've always lived by the moment anyway.

"You got it," Bobby said under his breath, gripping the keys tightly, and then running out the door.

" " "

"First aid kit," Sam said simply, as he tore open the door to the basement. The panicked occupants within jumped at the sight of him, wide-eyed, breathless civilians huddled fearfully in the dark.

"What?" the man of the house asked, rightfully stunned.

His wife was slightly calmer, showing the nerve of that woman Sam had first seen upstairs, asking him to kill her own daughter. She blinked at Sam, before rising to her feet. "I can show you."

"Wait," her husband said, grabbing her arm and turning toward Sam, "Is it safe to go out?"

"For now," Sam said, "You can walk up with me if you like, but you might want to stay here for a little while, with your daughter. There are... there are things upstairs children shouldn't see."

The man's eyes crawled down from Sam's face to his bloodied clothes. He clutched his daughter tightly, and nodded, as Sam and his wife closed the basement door and went up to the higher levels of the house.

The woman kept a good half-jogging pace with Sam, stopping in the kitchen. She blinked once at the mess from her empty fridge, before shaking herself off and drawing out a large, fully-tripped-out first aid kit from one of the lower cabinets. Sam was pleasantly surprised, and she saw it on his face when she handed him the case.

"She's..." the woman said, by way of stammering explanation, "We had a hard time conceiving. She's our only child. I had to... to be very cautious."

The woman was gonna break, Sam realized, sensing the events of the last few - hours? days? weeks? _how long had Lilith tortured this family in the face of that beautiful child_?- begin to crash around her. The woman had been willing to kill her own daughter, for god's sake. But he had no time or inclination to coddle her. He turned his back on her and stalked for the room where his brother's body was. He felt her follow, felt himself not-give-a-damn.

He knelt by Dean, and swallowed the lump on his throat he thought he had already gotten rid of. He wanted to stop feeling. He wanted to stop-the-fuck from crying. He had work to do, damn it. He heard her gasp behind him.

"I know, lady," Sam growled at her as he opened the insanely well-equipped first aid kit, "The most paranoid mother's first aid kit won't do a damn thing for a corpse. I got an ambulance coming in minutes but I want to... to.. I just – I need to..."

_Tend him_, Sam thought, _Clean him, I don't know. I don't want to leave him looking like this..._

"He's my brother," he finished instead, as if that was supposed to explain everything. Maybe it did, because she said nothing else about what he was doing.

"What," she asked, breathlessly, "What did that to him?"

"Dogs," Sam said with a grunt, as he drew out surgical scissors from the kit, and started getting rid of the remnants of Dean's clothes. He did it with practiced precision, and tossed aside the soggy, bloodied pieces of clothing and, occasionally, he almost gagged, torn muscle and flesh. He stripped Dean down to his boxers, and surveyed the full extent of the damage done him by the hellhounds.

"God," Sam gasped, hands fisting at his sides, "Damn it."

He felt her hand on his shoulder, and felt himself shoving it away. He seemed removed from his body, removed from the situation, as if he wasn't doing anything, just living through things happening to him.

"Your brother," she said, softly, kneeling down next to Sam and looking over Dean's body, "bled out worst through here," she pointed toward the inner side of Dean's right arm, "Here," she said, now motioning for the middle section of his torso, near the base of his throat, "And here," she said, nodding at his inner thigh. "I don't know why, but those dogs went right for the places where the right veins and arteries are. I can't say it did not hurt, mister, but I can promise you he would not have suffered very long--"

A dry, humorless laugh. He wanted to deck her, but he checked himself. She couldn't have known, that death by hellhound was the least torture Dean had to endure. That the worst was coming. That _hell _itself was next. And so he just shook his head.

"I did some volunteer work before I got married," she rambled on nervously, "I went to Africa, and a few cold climes in Asia. Lions and wolves, you know. I've seen my share of lacerations that looked like this."

"Any of the organs damaged?" Sam asked.

"I can't tell from all the visual obstruction," she said, getting to her feet and grabbing some disconcertingly-floral-printed kitchen towels. She soaked them in hot water, and then knelt by Sam, hesitating. "May I...?"

"Please," he said, opening his palm toward his brother's...body.

She nodded, took a deep, shaky breath, and then began wiping at the blood on Dean's chest. God, he was such a mess. The pink flowers vanished in the blood all too soon. One towel, two. _Three_. Absolutely blood-soaked. And even when she was done, his body was still red-streaked. Clearing away the blood showed the torn flesh in all its gory glory. There was literally, precariously-hanging strips of flesh and muscle that looked... looked kind of misplaced on his brother's body, like semi-loose parts of a car no one knew what to do with. The fucking hood was popped on Dean Winchester's dead body...

"Skin and muscular damage is extensive," she murmured, "But from what I can see, the organs do not seem to have been bitten or scratched into. Cause of death looks like blood loss from arteries and veins, not physical force to the organs. But I haven't done this in years."

"Good enough for me," Sam said, under his breath, thinking, _At least I don't have to steal someone else's_...

"Is this..." she hesitated, "I guess he wanted to be an organ donor, huh? That's why you're so concerned? If help arrives here in the next few minutes, they should still find them viable--"

"No one's dining off of Dean," Sam snapped, irrationally angry at her again. He heard the sirens of an ambulance nearing. He rose to his feet, and she looked up at him.

"He died saving your family," Sam said, realizing it did not feel like so much of a lie, since this what Dean did for a living, even if this last mission was also incidentally colored by a quest to save his own life, "Now I need you to do what you can for him."

She nodded, jerkily, as she watched him walk away.

" " "

It was a disconcerting sight, like walking into one of those post-apocalyptic horror movies about a small town gone crazy. There was an ambulance in front of the house, wailing as it was supposed to, empty and surrounded by emptiness the way that it wasn't. The unconscious or dead bodies of the formerly-possessed neighbors still laid in scattered sets on the lawn, untouched, and unmoving. The door to the house was ajar.

Anytime Bobby let any Winchester out of his sight, the first thing that comes to mind the next time he sees or hears from them is, _What the hell have you done this time?_

He stepped inside the house, again, cautiously, keys to the Impala jiggling loosely in his left palm and his gun secured on his right. He passed the hall. And then stood stock-still-shocked by the door to one of the rooms.

"What the hell?" he exclaimed, making all the occupants in the room (excepting the two corpses – Dean's and Ruby's- on the ground) jump.

The lady of the house was standing over a uniformed EMT, her shaking hands tightly gripping a gun pointed at his head as he and his female partner tended a very, _very_ obviously dead, open-eyed Dean Winchester. Sam was on his knees on the ground, dragging that industrial-grade fridge he had emptied out earlier.

"Got the ice?" he asked the new arrival, sounding almost casual.

"Hell yeah I got the ice," Bobby snapped, irritably, "What the hell do you think you're doing, boy?"

"This man is dead," one of the EMT's, a fiery blond, smart-looking like they sometimes came, said of Dean, "I know you're his brother and it hurts like shit but you do not want to be doing this."

"I'm not asking for a goddamn vote," Sam snarled at him, "I told you I want this body kept alive, I got the gun, and you're doing it."

"It won't ever be alive again," the other EMT, a small-framed brunette woman told him earnestly, "He lost too much blood. He's shut down. The organs are barely viable as it is, starved of circulation these last few minutes. The brain is a lost cause. Everything that made him who he was is there, it'll be just like keeping a shell--"

Sam's nose flared in rage. He rose to his feet, snatched the gun from the trembling housewife and pressed the barrel to the female EMT's temple. "I'm not asking you again. I don't want a philosophical discussion, I don't want to talk about my 'pain,' I don't want anything from you, but to shut your trap unless you're going to be productive." His bloodshot eyes turned toward her partner.

"You take care of his shell, and let me handle who comes back," Sam said to them, lethally, "Understand?"

Blondie gulped, and nodded. "O-okay, buddy you got it. Just... just cool it, don't hurt her."

"Now let's run through what needs to be done," Sam said, pulling the gun away from the woman's temple, "You said you can't do much for him here."

"Yes," confirmed Blondie, "Nothing's working on its own. He needs a surgeon. You wanna keep this body alive? He needs machines you know, beat his heart for him, breathe for him, things like that. Everything we do here is going to be useless."

"What about..." asked Sam anxiously, "What about all that artificial stuff?"

"He's got _holes_ in him," said Blondie, explaining as simply as he could, "You get that heart pumping so you can move blood in his body. He lost most of his. There isn't anything to stir up. We can replace it but blood substitutes here won't be enough to save that much loss, and whatever we pump in him's coming out the same way his blood did. You need the damage to the arteries and veins repaired. The only thing we can do for him here is we slow him down, and get him to an OR stat. We've got drugs that keep the blood from clotting. And it seems you've already got the ice--"

"Roger--"

"Shut up Alex, I'm trying to keep us alive," he said, easily reading his partner's objection, "Some people say that death isn't just an event, you know, like a fucking blackout and suddenly no one's home. Before, death was just when the heart stopped. Since people learned to re-start it, the definition shifted to the cessation of the electrical impulses on the brain. But some people are saying it should be broadened far beyond that. Death is a process. Heart and brain goes out. The blood thickens and clots, the acids eat up the stomach, water is lost, decomp, dust... it's a series of events, and you can do things in between to intervene. We can thin the blood, we can cool him down. Get him to someone who can repair the damage in a goddamn freezer, put him on life support. The body will be 'alive,' if your definition is 'vegetable.' Legally-dead, unpluggable, but functioning."

"That's all I want from you," Sam said, "Him waking up and walking around after, that's up to me."

"We'll do what you want," Roger said, "But I guarantee you, you are not going to find a doctor who'll be willing to work on a corpse."

"I know that," Sam said, grimly. He handed the gun back to the housewife. "Watch them. Bobby? Let's go grab the ice."

" " "

"You knew they wouldn't be able to do anything for Dean," Bobby said, as he and Sam unlocked the trunk of the Impala.

"What he said," replied Sam, "I read about it too. That's why I asked you for ice even before they came in. I guess I just had to look at contingencies."

"Contingencies?"

Sam hauled up a garbage bag filled with smaller bags of ice, "If I failed, there had to be another way. First thing I had to do was keep his body alive. Dean would have my ass if he had to come back disembodied or worse, inside someone else."

"What else did you read?" Bobby asked.

"I read we needed some blood thinners," said Sam, "So you and I, we couldn't have just iced him and went on our way. They carry that in ambulances. You know what else I read?

"If I had to, I could keep him for hundreds of years," said Sam, hauling up another bag of ice and handing it to Bobby. He closed the trunk, murmuring distractedly, "Dean is sure gonna be pissed we got moisture on the arsenal."

"What do you mean hundreds of years?"

Sam heaved his ice bag over his shoulder, and started for the house, "Ever heard of Cryonics? The guy in there could have been talking about step one. Step two would have been draining all bodily fluids and replacing it with some kind of anti-freezing solution, gradually cool the body down, shove it in a can of liquid nitrogen, and then you've got a body that can sleep 'til forever. They've figured out how to preserve people, Bobby. Next thing they'll figure out is how to reanimate them and of course, cure or solve whatever killed them in the first place. Ever heard of that?"

"I read on monsters, boy," snapped Bobby, grabbing his own bag and following Sam inside, "Not science fiction."

"Common misconception," Sam said with a grunt, "It's a very real science. You've got clinics up and down the country specializing in this. You've got loaded old geezers ponying up hundreds of thousands of dollars to be preserved and 'sleep' their way into the future.

"I'm getting Dean out of hell as soon as I can, Bobby," Sam said, "So that'll be the last resort. But if I had to, I can keep his body in some form of living and work on saving him right until the day I die. _Right until the day I die_. The solution can both be scientific and supernatural at the same time. He might not mind, much. I'll just tell him he's frozen like Stallone in _Demolition Man_."

" " "

The damn cord was getting in the way, and Sam was tempted as hell to wrench it off the fridge, except he thought it might be useful, once they found a place to settle down. The irony that he was stuffing his brother in a refrigerator, like that mad immortal doctor they had buried alive not too long ago, was not at all lost on him.

_Sorry Dean_, he thought, slowly tilting down the fridge such that it was horizontal on the ground, like a damn... _casket--bath tub_, he corrected himself. He lined the bottom with ice from the bags Bobby had brought. And then he picked up his brother, arms beneath Dean's back and knees, and gently lowered him over the ice. Dean was heavy, but it wasn't why he was shaking, when he was done.

As if the old man sensed his resolve weakening, Bobby elbowed his way forward with a fresh armload of ice, and then proceeded with laying it over Dean's body. It did not take him long, until all that was left was the boy's face. Green eyes still stared upward, emptily.

Sam gulped, not wanting to ask the older hunter to close his brother's eyes. He did not want to see them closed. He did not want to never see them again. It was macabre leaving them open, but they were such a distinct shade of green-gray, weren't they? Rare, that color. Were mom's eyes that color? He didn't know. _Don't close them. Don't close them._

Bobby pursed his lips, and without looking at Sam, laid a gentle palm over Dean's face, and closed his eyes. Sam didn't stop him. Bobby covered Dean's face with ice too, and then took a deep breath and shut the lid of the fridge. It closed with a kind of vacuum-like hiss, with finality.

"You've all lost your minds," Alex murmured, "What the hell happened to this town?"

Sam was nibbling at his knuckles, mind racing, thinking of the next step, not up to indulging her.

"How long 'til they miss the ambulance?" Sam asked.

"Depends on what we call in," Roger replied, "Wouldn't have to lie much anyway, this place looks like a disaster area. We can call in four, maybe five more cabs. The people out there look like they need it. With more cabs out, it's harder to tell them coming and going. You got two, maybe three hours."

"Call it in," Sam ordered, "Let's load and get out of here."

"To where?" Bobby asked.

"I'll figure it out," Sam said, grabbing one corner of the heavy fridge and nodding for Roger, Alex and Bobby to do the same, "I just need time to think. On three."

"What..." the house owner stammered, "What am I going to tell the people coming here? So many dead... what the hell am I going to say...?" She walked with them when they loaded the ambulance, looking in panic at the strained faces. Her lawn and the road around it, after all, was still lined by unconscious and dead people.

"Thank you for your help," Sam told her, sincerely, and quietly, finally taking pity on her, "This..." he shook his head in resigned dismay at the world, "This is how things really are, this is what happens in the dark, but I think you know that better than anybody by now; you were willing to pay the ultimate price. Possessions and monsters and demons... No one is ever ready for it when it comes, but it is what it is. Me and my brother... we've worked hard all our lives to protect people, and as you can see, we've paid the price for it too. I don't know what to tell you, or how to help you, anymore. All I want is to get my brother back. We can't do any more for you, and I'm sorry."

"Okay," she nodded, and shakily handed him back his gun. She looked toward the two wide-eyed EMT's who were already waiting inside the ambulance. Roger was at the wheel, and Alex was sitting next to the surreal refrigerator. "I'm sorry. They saved my family. I had to help them." To Sam, she said, simply, "Good luck."

" " "

Bobby Singer left his truck and manned the Impala. Sam wasn't about to leave it behind, he knew that. Sam rode with his brother in the ambulance, letting Blondie drive and staying in the back with a gun trained loosely in the direction of the girl.

A few minutes trailing after the ambulance and not knowing where they were headed, he got a call on his cellphone. "Sam?"

"Bobby, I got a plan."

"Son," Bobby said, wearily, "I don't know where you're taking this, but pointing a gun at somebody and asking them to do what you ask never did anyone any good for too long. We're undermanned, you know that, don't you?"

An exhausted sigh. "I know."

_God, he sounds so young_...

"What do you need me to do?" Bobby asked.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	2. Chapter 2

Author:Mirrordance

Title: Home Road

Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.

" " "

Home Road

" " "

2

" " "

Elsewhere

" " "

_What am I supposed to do_?

It was that one question Dean made certain sure he had an answer for.

A part of him had known, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Sam would ask him. He couldn't answer the other stuff – _How can we save you? Why is this happening to us?_ - but _that_ question, _that_ he had to have an answer for.

He knew Sam would ask that, because as different as the two of them seemed, they were brothers still, and last year, almost to the day, as he beheld the still form of his cold, dead brother before him, he had asked the same thing.

_What am I supposed to do..._ he had whispered, brokenly.

The silence was deafening. Sam was blue-gray and unmoving. The fucking town was supposed to have tons of ghosts, but why did everything just feel _empty_?

_What am I supposed to do_?, he asked, an intriguing question now, as an answer began to form in his head.

_What am I supposed to do_?!, he _exclaimed_, this time, because he had already known the answer, and the question actually meant, _Is this really what I'm supposed to do_?

And of course, that dead, empty night, he found himself standing at a crossroads, in front of a hungry demon and offering himself up for one more year, just one more year with his brother.

That was why that question absolutely had to have an answer. Because when he had asked it, desperation had replied, and he ended up on the unlucky end of an angry hellhound, dragged down to where he was, chained, bleeding, and of course, appropriately miserable (_to say the least_).

It was a fate he would never want for his brother. Sam needed direction. Sam needed an answer. And so in the days that preceded his death, he tried like crazy to find something to say, to _What am I supposed to do_?

_Keep fighting._

_Take care of my wheels._

_Remember what dad taught you_.

It wasn't until the strike of midnight, in that ironically beautiful house, that he thought to add, _And remember what _I_ taught you_.

It was a moment of pure truth. Death made everything clear. The past, the future. He knew where he was headed. He knew where he had come from. He knew what happened in between. It was like looking back at a kingdom you've built from an incredible height. He looked at the steely-determined face of is brother, shattered-looking the way that mug of his got whenever he was really upset, but strangely undefeated.

_I had a hand in that_, he thought, proudly.

_Remember what _I_ taught you_.

" " "

"Sam!" Dean yelled for the nth time, because he needed help, because he knew those ears would listen if they could hear, because there was nothing else to do, because he was in pain and scared, because--

_This couldn't be it, could it_? He wondered, bound, helpless, spread-eagled, scared-shitless, in excruciating pain and strangely bored at the same time. _Is this hell? Is this it?_

"Sam!" he yelled again. Just. Because.

_What could possibly make a man forget that he was once human, out here? How possible was that? Who did it, and what exactly did they do?_

_Do you really wanna know the answer to that one, Winchester?_

"Help me!" he cried, his voice breaking like it hasn't broken since his once-depressing, now-comparatively paradise-like adolescence. He was thirsty. His voice was going. His breath hitched. He felt like he was burning, inside-out. There was no relief. He couldn't move, couldn't wipe at the blood drying on his face, couldn't stop the ones that wept from his skin as if it would never run out. He shook his arms in yet another futile effort to break free of the chains that _ran through _him. They shot pain across his body, making him scream again. His breath was running out, but there was always breath enough to scream, here. He was weary beyond measure, but there was always just strength enough to shake, and thrash, and writhe.

"Sam..." hos voice was going. But not his heart, not yet.

_You know what would make this situation absolutely peachy? If I desperately had to scratch my ass. And couldn't._

A manic half-laugh. It felt like it was getting wrangled from the very pits of his stomach. His black humor was hiding deeper and deeper, huddling in the dark along with his hope. It was getting harder and harder to wrench it out. He was hungry too, for that matter. Nauseated and sick-feeling but also desperately hungry. Hungry. Thirsty. Sick. Tired. Worse, _alone._

"Sam," he whispered, licking his lips, "Somebody."

"Help me!" he screamed, louder, "Help me!"

His tears fell down the side of his face, annoying streaks that he couldn't swipe off. Now the last time those tears fell like this was exactly a year ago, when his younger brother died in his arms. The memory strengthened him, somehow.

_This isn't hell_, he thought, his resolve strengthening, _Sam dead in my arms, _that_ was hell. This... this is nothing_.

" " "

Dean drifted off in exhausted half-dreaming. He wished he could shut off his mind, but no one granted wishes in hell. No one even listened to them. Heck, give a guy time and he never even thought of them, much less mentioned them, anymore. His voice ran out to hoarse from the screaming. He decided to shut his trap and wait for the next opportune time to use his big damn mouth. Sam was coming, he'd use it then. He'd know when Sam was near. He always knew, after all. He'd save all the ballistic screaming for then.

_He drifted off..._

There was nothing to do but let his thoughts run through him. Him being where he was, these were obviously dark thoughts, and he wondered if he would ever be happy again.

There were things he forgot he remembered, like the odd, consuming white color of that thing his mother wore the night she died. The way it fit over her body. It was so decidedly feminine, that night dress. He could have sworn he could now remember every crease of that white cloth against her form. _Every crease_. Laces and folds and hovering pieces, shadows against brilliant white.

It did not take him long to remember the smell of her shampoo, or, or feel the silk of her hair on his face. Her cool, satin skin. With its little constellations of freckles. The light in her eyes. The streaks of her hair. He could have known _exactly_ how many strands she had on her pretty head.

His senses were heightened, in his memories. He felt like a god, seeing everything, knowing everything there was to know about his mother, that night that she died. His heart began to lighten at the thought of her. And then tighten, in suspicion.

These were not his memories.

He was seeing that night through indulgent, borrowed eyes. Eyes that lent him every beautiful bit of his mom, only to take every part of her away from him, make the pain last longer, make the loss more complete.

_"No," he must have whispered_, though there was no coherent thought, really, no force, no word, no feeling of any attachment to his body. He was watching his mother die. He was watching _every bit_ of her die. Every fold of that dress lost to the fire, every freckle, every inch of flesh, right down to every _fucking_ strand of hair.

_Nononononononononono_...

He gasped and returned to himself. It was almost relieving to find himself chained and alone, and hurt and tired, than to see anything like that ever again.

"Sam," he mouthed, soundlessly, "Help me."

" " "

Indiana

" " "

"What the hell?" the young doctor exclaimed, looking at the new arrival in the emergency room, laid out on a stretcher being pushed by a crew of four.

"Another one from New Harmony," one of the male nurses said, "Right, Rodge? What the fuck went down on that town? We got stab wounds, hallucinations, we got shell-shocked people, we got dead people, unharmed-confused people--"

"It's a mess," Roger grunted, agreeing grimly.

"This one looks like a DOA three times over, doc," another nurse said.

"Why the hell is he so cold?" yet another one asked, "Look at his chest, dude, something tore him apart."

The doctor's beeper chimed, and he waved the EMT and the nurses forward ahead of him, toward one of the operating rooms. No reason to rush, really, he's been doing this long enough to know John Doe was a goner--

_Find a way to keep him alive_, the message went, _Or else little Jessie's joining mommy in heaven._

" " "

Doctor Troy Brennan lived in a painfully clean condominium downtown, a short drive away from the hospital where he worked and three blocks away from where his thirteen-year-old daughter Jessie studied. He has been a widower for the last three years, having lost his wife in a long battle with cancer. The neatness of the house was easily attributable to the precocious teenage girl, who from a tragically early age has gone on to care for her sick mother, and thereafter her grieving dad. She apparently knew how to take care of herself also. The pepper spray that had nicked Sam Winchester's left eye when he nabbed her from school was still smarting.

"What do you want from me and my dad?" she asked him pointedly, looking straight up at him, arms crossed over her chest, undaunted. Sam was in no mood to babysit. His gaze kind of just moved over her, shifted to the older hunter who was watching him disapprovingly.

The EMT they had also kidnapped, Alex, put an arm around Jessie's shoulders. "Quiet down, honey. All we have to do is sit down and wait, okay? They won't hurt us, and they won't hurt your dad."

"We don't have a lot of money," Jessie said, "We lost almost everything when mom was sick--"

"Shhh now," Alex said, somehow finding a way to glare up at Sam and smile reassuringly at the girl. She ushered Jessie to sit with her over some books in the living room, and Sam watched them with a cold eye. He drew out knick-knacks from his deep jacket pocket. The teenager's pink cellular phone was predictably ringing, and of course it was her panicked father calling. Sam ignored it. He also had EMT Roger Wallis' wallet, which contained photographs of his wife and kids, and his address on his driver's license. He wondered how long this would last.

_"Bring my brother to the hospital," Sam had said to the driving EMT, "And shut your trap when you get there. I'm bringing your partner with me, and if you so much as _think _about turning me in or hurting Dean, _she_ will regret it very much." He reached over the guy's coat pockets, and grabbed his wallet too. It did not take him long to find his address and photos of family._

_"I guess I got this too," he said, darkly, "Don't get any crazy ideas."_

_"But mister-" the man protested, "I can do what you want but I'm telling you, no one will seriously bother with him! There's nothing I can do for him at that point--"_

_"I know," Sam said, "Just do your part. Troy Brennan..." he read about the young on-shift ER doctor's profile from the Internet on his mobile, "Will do exactly what I need him to do."_

In afterthought, Sam picked up the phone.

"Jessie?!" came the panicked call.

"No," Sam told him, "How's my brother?"

"You son-of-a-bitch--"

"How's my brother?" Sam asked again.

"He's dead--"

"You'd better be lying," Sam told him, darkly, "Because if that were the case, you have a hell of a problem."

An enraged inhale. "Tell you what you fucking bastard. I got your brother. You give me back my daughter or else I'll--"

"You'll what?" Sam scoffed, "He's dead, remember? Nothing you do will hurt him. Me and Jessie, here, on the other hand..."

"Who the hell are you?!"

"The less you know the better," Sam told him, "Please, doc. Put him on a damn machine. That's all I want. I don't want to harm your daughter but I can promise you right now... I find that I really _could_, if I had to."

Sam felt Bobby's eyes widen, and then turn away from him.

A long, thoughtful pause.

"Can I speak with her?" Brennan asked, "Is she all right?"

"She's fine," Sam assured him as he walked toward Jessie, "It's your dad."

"I'm fine, dad!" she exclaimed, "I've heard of this guy, I don't think he'll hurt me. His name is Sam Winchester."

Sam and Bobby looked at her in stunned silence.

_How would she know that...?!_

"Call this number as soon as you're done," Sam said, his mouth dry, as he hung up.

" " "

Bobby was torn between _dying_ to find out how this teenager knew who Sam was and keeping his mouth shut so he wouldn't confirm it. But she already looked so damn sure that he thought he really might as well just up and ask. Sam's eyes were on him, as if struggling with the same conflict.

_It's your life, boy_, Bobby shrugged at him.

"Now how would someone like you know something like that?" Sam asked, standing over her as she sat on the couch. Bobby imagined how daunting and _tall_ he must have looked from her view.

Her thin brows furrowed. She wasn't one of those beautiful children with gentle faces. She had sharp features and she tended to look like a smart-ass. She also seemed to be hesitating, and Bobby could almost see the thoughts racing in her little head.

_Would it get me in trouble?_

Her eyes narrowed. _Curiosity_, Bobby read in her blazing eyes.

_Crazy kids_.

"All my friends know," she said, shrugging, "Don't you ever Google yourself?"

"Not for awhile," Sam replied, glancing up at Bobby, "You keep tabs at the 'Wanted' bulletins and it gets kinda old."

"There's this website," Jessie told him, "Ever heard of the _Ghostfacers_?"

"Oh, God," Sam groaned, wearily.

"What?" Bobby asked.

"Those idiot kids just keep growing heads, don't they," Sam muttered, before clarifying, "A while back in Texas, these goofs looking for internet fame and fortune got in the way of a job Dean and I were doing. They did the same back when we were on that Morton House gig. A bunch of amateurs with cameras, looking for the big time, trying to get themselves killed."

"_I_ think they're very good," Jessie declared. Sam kind of gave her that _Like-I-care-what-you-think_ look. Bobby had never seen it before, but Sam just did not have the touch with kids that his older brother did. Never had the practice, he supposed, just to be fair.

"My friend Ryan told me it was a hoax," Jessie said, "But look, you're in my living room. Is all the stuff they say about you true?"

"What do they say?" Bobby asked.

"Bobby, we don't have the time for this," Sam said, sighing, "I'm curious as hell, yeah, but, but... Dean, you know?"

"I know, Sam," said the older hunter, "We gotta keep looking. Don't want him down there any longer than he has to."

"Where's Dean?" Jessie asked.

"You know him too?" Sam asked, in return.

"My friends found him cute," she replied, suddenly a little shyly, before adding, "The website said he only had two months left, for some reason. It's been two months, almost to the day today, I think. So where is he?"

"I think you had better take a look at that, Sam," Bobby advised, "Sounds like a gigantic security breach to me. I'll look at what else we can do for Dean."

"Where's Dean?" Jessie asked again.

Sam pointedly ignored her.

" " "

Sam sat on the floor with his back to the wall and his legs stretched out, brooding over his laptop, trying to ignore the nosy teenager who insisted on sitting with him and who kept jostling his elbow as he worked.

"See here?" the teenager nagged Sam, "Go to that tab, the one they call _Project Winchester_."

"You mind?" Sam snapped, when she tried to reach over his forearms and expedite the process.

"No, I'm helping. They talk a lot and put up some really useless crap," she said, "So I'm taking you straight to the good stuff. See this one..." she pointed at the screen, "Is the introduction to the project. Ed and Harry talk about how you messed up their video files for the Morton House, and they were trying to hunt you down."

"Hunt us down," Sam said flatly, "'Fedex Ed' and... and a guy named 'Harry.' Are you kidding me."

She wasn't. "They thought maybe you sabotaged them to do the Hollywood thing yourself. They were determined to find you. They put up photos of you and your brother from video footage from Texas, and some footage from the Morton House, and asked people to post any information they had on you or your brother."

"But we destroyed all the footage from the Morton House," Sam pointed out.

"They said that too," she replied, "But there was one set that hadn't been destroyed. Remember that dead guy, Corbett? He had several cameras on him when he went on that Morton House thing. All of the Ghostfacers did, and the footage from their individual cameras got sent to the master computer, right? But each of their hardware also contained the separate memory. Your virus bomb destroyed the master file and the memory in the equipment that was within the radius. Corbett's equipment, on the other hand, was buried with him as tribute by his friends."

Jessie wrinkled her nose. "They dug it up, and have been getting a lot of buzz and traffic on their website from that footage. Someone recognized you, named you as Sam Winchester. I guess things got easy after that. The Ghostfacers dug up your mug from the FBI wanted list. They had newsclips and obits of you and your brother. When they heard you were supposed to be dead months before they ran into you again, and when they got weird feedback from all these people saying you helped them on the comments section, they gave you a special file."

"Great," Sam muttered.

"See here?" Jessie pointed, "That's the first guy who commented and recognized you."

"'That's Sam Winchester,'" Sam read aloud, "'Went to high school with him for a little while. Nice guy, but they moved around a lot. - Chuck, New Jersey.'"

"Know him?" Jessie asked.

"Maybe if I see a photo," Sam said, distractedly reading a few more posts, "But not off the top of my head, no. We really did move around a lot."

"A whole lot more former schoolmates affirming your nice guy-ness and smarts," Jessies said flippantly, "So when I saw you I wasn't too worried."

"So why'd you hit me with pepper spray?" Sam asked.

"It's just reflex," she replied, "My dad taught me to shoot first and ask questions later. Anyway, are you reading, are you reading?"

"You are a pain to be around," Sam muttered at her as he tried to concentrate. "I hate kids."

"I'm thirteen," she corrected him, primly.

" " "

It took Sam a good two hours to read through the posts. Some were informative and interesting threads, while others (especially the ones posted by the moderators themselves) were seldom productive. There were posts from people he was sure he had forgotten, from schools they attended or the neighborhoods the Winchesters have stayed in. There were embarrassing comments from total strangers talking about their looks. The ones he found most interesting were the posts from people they have saved, and they weren't few. Sam wanted to tear himself away, concentrate on Dean's situation, but he couldn't; he was too riled up about Dean's surgery to be productive as he waited for Doctor Brennan's call, and many of the posts allowed him to take a breath and just think about his brother. Besides, as Bobby said, having information on him and Dean for the world to devour was a security risk, and he might as well take a look. And so he read on.

_Lilian, Florida said: "I went to High School with Sam too. He had the highest GPA in the class. I heard he went to Stanford on a free ride or something."_

_Ed: That punk jerk couldn't have gone to Stanford._

" " "

_Ed, Ghostfacers Team Leader, said: "That punk jerk couldn't have gone to Stanford."_

_Spruce: I checked it, Ed. He was even headed to Law School. Hey... didn't you try to get into Stanford, once?_

" " "

_Spruce, Ghostfacers Team Member, said: "I checked it, Ed. He was even headed to Law School. Hey... didn't you try to get into Stanford, once?"_

_Harry, Ghostfacers Team Co-Leader: If that's the kind of guy they churn out, Ed wouldn't have wanted to go there anyway._

" " "

_Harry, Ghostfacers Team Co-Leader, said: "If that's the kind of guy they churn out, Ed wouldn't have wanted to go there anyway."_

_Ed: Well he's a drop-out. I checked too._

" " "

_Dante, New York: I ran into these guys like, late last year, they're officers with the Department of Homeland Security. _

" " "

_Casey, Missouri: They were really bad waiters at my local Taco Bell._

" " "

_Amy, California: This is weird, I met them months after those obits came out. The tall one's really bad at Karaoke, and his name isn't Sam Winchester, it's Ritchie Sambora._

" " "

_Amy, California, said: "This is weird, I met them months after those obits came out. The tall one's really bad at Karaoke, and his name isn't Sam Winchester, it's Ritchie Sambora."_

_Dutch, Idaho: I don't know who Sam Winchester is, but Ritchie Sambora's a guitarist for Bon Jovi, dude._

" " "

_Dutch, Idaho, said: "I don't know who Sam Winchester is, but Ritchie Sambora's a guitarist for Bon Jovi, dude."_

_Amy, California: Who?_

" " "

_Amy, California, said: "This is weird, I met them months after those obits came out. The tall one's really bad at Karaoke, and his name isn't Sam Winchester, it's Ritchie Sambora."_

_Haley, Colorado: Are you sure it was them? I read they died, and my family was devastated. They saved our lives._

" " "

_Amy, California, said: "This is weird, I met them months after those obits came out. The tall one's really bad at Karaoke, and his name isn't Sam Winchester, it's Ritchie Sambora."_

_Matt, Oklahoma: They saved our lives too. Are you sure they're okay? The guys you met, it was really them?_

" " "

_Matt, Oklahoma, said: "They saved our lives too. Are you sure they're okay? The guys you met, it was really them?"_

_Rebecca, California: They're alive ? Has anyone heard anything?_

" " "

_Gabe, Massachusetts: I'm trying to come up with a timeline. When's the last time anyone ever saw them?_

" " "

_Gabe, Massachusetts, said: "I'm trying to come up with a timeline. When's the last time anyone ever saw them?"_

_Ed, Ghostfacers Team Leader: The Ghostfacers have the most recent encounter at February. Who the hell are these people?_

" " "

_Amy, California, said: "This is weird, I met them months after those obits came out. The tall one's really bad at Karaoke, and his name isn't Sam Winchester, it's Ritchie Sambora."_

_Gabe, Massachusetts: When was this?_

" " "

_Haley, Colorado, said: "Are you sure it was them? I read they died, and my family was devastated. They saved our lives."_

_Gabe, Massachusetts: When was this?_

" " "

_Matt, Oklahoma, said: "They saved our lives too. Are you sure they're okay? The guys you met, it was really them?"_

_Gabe, Massachusetts: When was this?_

" " "

Sam took a deep, shaky breath. He, Dean and their father have always felt this was a thankless job, so it was strange, reading post after post of people actually concerned about him and Dean.

He remembered some of the people, like Haley and the Wendigo from Colorado, Matt and the fricking bees from Oklahoma (it was an interesting case, sure, but it was the _bees_ he couldn't seem to get over), Rebecca, of course, seemed back to school in Palo Alto. He read through comments from Laurie in Iowa, Charley in Ohio, Cat and Gavin (_for god's sake, they're still together?!_) from Illinois. There were many, many others. It seemed that every teenager or college-aged person they saved was on that ridiculous _Ghostfacers _website. Defending them. Seeking them.

Come to think of it, he shouldn't have been surprised that the people they saved knew who they were, or that they somehow found the _Ghostfacers_ website. First of all, he, Dean and the Impala were hard to miss. Separately, sure, it was possible. But mix in the very distinct threesome to very special circumstances, like hauntings and violence and monsters, and there was just no mistaking them for anyone else. If you ran into the Winchesters, you remembered them, whether you wanted to or not. Secondly, the special circumstances the Winchesters stood by them with were life-changing; these people would have found themselves researching the supernatural afterwards, and undoubtedly finding one of the most popular new websites about it. That they should defend the Winchesters, or find community in others who did the same, though... that touched Sam to the core.

_Wish Dean was here to see this_--

He tore himself away from the crippling thought.

There were a few threads damning them too, to be fair, and not a few of them were women wondering why Dean Winchester or whatever-his-name-really-was never called back. Some of the most insistent ones were _Tina, Las Vegas _and _Tina, New Mexico_. These were Dean-adventures he'd rather not know about.

Even these small, ridiculous thoughts hurt him. The things he read about that damn neared unbearable were comments from _Ben, Indiana, _and two boys from Wisconsin, _Lucas _and _Michael_. Kids singing his punk brother's praises as if he hung up the sun.

_Do your mothers know you're on-line in an R-rated website_?

He ran a weary hand over his face.

_Brennan, call me._

" " "

Alex drummed her fingers on the coffee table, feeling confused and out-of-place. She watched Sam – the tall, psychotic one – shift uneasily against the weight of the precocious teenager who had somehow fallen asleep against his shoulder as he sat on the floor of the living room. He had a very intelligent gaze, sharp but focused when he was on edge but also very, very lonely. Once in awhile, she would catch him drifting from the things he was reading on his laptop, just kind of lost in himself. He looked like an orphan. It was hard, looking for a spot of sympathy in her heart for her kidnapper, but she also had no doubt by now that he was also deathly desperate.

The older man – Bobby, she learned – was downing his nth cup of coffee (the owner of the home was a doctor so he had more caffeine than food), looking over an old book. She was getting weirdly intrigued by them.

"So, ah..." she said, softly, "You're supposed to be famous."

She was expecting the old man to answer; Sam had, after all, thus far limited himself to simply ignoring or threatening her. She didn't expect him to wearily look up from the laptop. She had that suddenly strange and sinking feeling, _God, he's really gonna answer, isn't he_?, as if something inside her already knew she was going to regret hearing his reply.

"I can't think anyway," he muttered to himself, before turning toward her. When he looked at her straight, and tiredly, she felt as if it was the first time he _really_ looked at her. Not like she was just some tool he could use against, say Roger or, toward saving his beloved brother. He looked at her and he seemed to look _through_ her. It was an unnerving feeling.

"More _in_famous, really," he said, quietly, glancing at the girl sleeping on his shoulder, and lowered his voice all the more. He had a distinct sensitivity, she noted, despite all the unhappiness and inextricable anger simmering in his eyes.

"I heard her mention the FBI," Alex said, warily.

"Wanted in a number of states for murder, credit card fraud, identity theft, vandalism," Sam said, "So yeah, the FBI would have been on our tails."

"But..." Alex hesitated, "But Jessie wasn't scared of you."

"We're the good guys, believe it or not," Sam said, "Me, Bobby and... and Dean. We hunt demons. Monsters. Bad things. I know how it sounds. I know how it looks like from the outside. You kill something that looks human and it's murder. You dig up a body and salt and burn it, it's vandalism. You steal a cursed object and destroy it and it's theft. Sure."

"The other stuff?" she asked.

"We gotta eat," Sam shrugged, "Our car needs fuel. Our guns need bullets. On bad jobs we needed hospitals and medicine. Never took anything more than what we needed. But if we're being technical, sure. Guilty, as charged. It's a thankless job, and I hate it, and now my brother's dead."

"People seem to appreciate what you have done for them," Alex pointed out.

Sam shrugged, noncommittally. She found him more glum, than threatening at this point.

"It was," he hesitated, "It was so easy to take him for granted, sometimes."

"What do you mean?"

"He made it so easy," Sam gulped, "For me, my dad...to take him for granted. He did everything for me, you know? It was never about him, not even when he was hurting or scared or...he just laughed it off or shrugged it off, and... never mind."

She didn't understand what he was saying. He was talking more to himself than to her, with all these internal references she just could not be privy to.

"I was going to give you the Dr. Phil talk," she stammered, "About, about loss and dealing with it. But you guys are different, aren't you? You think you can bring your brother back to life?"

Sam glanced up at Bobby.

"We _are_ different," he said, veiling his eyes in that dark, flat, determination again, and it felt as if he physically stepped away from her, even if he moved not a muscle, "And I _will_ bring my brother back."

Jessie's cellphone rang, making all of them jump. Sam answered it midway through the very, _very_ first ring.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	3. Chapter 3

Author:Mirrordance

Title: Home Road

Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.

**Massive Thanks** to all who read and **especially** all who reviewed. Every single one is highly valued, I guarantee it. You keep me goin and goin :) Here's part 3. C&C's as welcome and desired as always. 'Til the next post!

" " "

Home Road

" " "

3

" " "

Elsewhere

" " "

Every time Dean drifted off or closed his eyes, he went back to that night that his life had changed. It was his mother in her nightgown. Her kiss and her goodnight and the heat and the despair.

_Every. Fucking. Time. _

Watching it the first time felt like a stab in the gut. Seeing it a second time was someone twisting the knife to the right. Seeing it a third time was someone twisting that same knife to the left. Seeing it a fourth time was someone digging in deeper. Seeing it a fifth time was someone pulling it up. Seeing it a sixth time was someone pulling it down. Seven and eight moved it sideways. By nine and ten he was thinking, _diagonal_. Eleven was someone wrenching the knife out. He was gutted out and emptied, and still the memory ran on, again and again and again, in every possible detail.

He had never remembered her in this magnitude. He had never been given this much of her. The intimate knowledge of her only made her loss more acute.

Her eyes, her clothes, her freckles, every strand of her hair. He watched her beauty and felt it being wrenched from him in every possible way. She burnt off of the face of the world. Every single bit of her.

By the nth time, he realized the pain was duller when he started to look beyond his mother. He watched cute baby Sammy on the crib. Smelled his father's aftershave. Watched the fire dance. Looked at a fireman's funny hat.

The more he watched his mother die over and over and over, the easier it was to look at something else, to think of something else. It sure as hell felt _safer_.

" " "

Indiana

" " "

"Winchester?" Brennan said, "You wanted a vegetable and you got it. Now give me my daughter back."

"Soon," Sam murmured, "Sit tight, Doctor. I will call."

He hung up the phone, thoughtfully. Everyone in the room was watching him, including the teenager who had just woken up. She pulled her weight off of his shoulder, and watched his face.

"Got what you needed?" she asked.

"Believe it or not," said Sam as he got to his feet and walked toward Bobby, "That was the easy part. Got anything?"

"We've been doing this for a year, Sam," the older hunter sighed, "Not such a stretch, is it, to say I haven't found anything new?"

"Him being in... in hell," Sam said, "I was wondering if that could actually be good for us. No one can stop a demon deal but now that he's there... if we found the Colt and opened the gate--"

"There's no guaranteeing he can get out that way," Bobby said, quickly, "You could be letting out everyone down there before you get to Dean. That's like... spitting on his damn corpse, son. Even I won't let you do that. If we can get the Colt in the first place, which I doubt."

"People summon out demons all the time," Sam said, thinking of another way.

"He's not one yet," Bobby pointed out, "It takes time, for a soul to change, especially the stronger ones. And your brother... you know as well as I do he'll be the strongest one down there. Besides, while it's true that the sooner he turns, the easier it will be to bring him out, I guarantee you, the less you'd want to."

"So what?" Sam snapped, "What, nothing now?"

"We're looking, aren't we?" Bobby snapped back.

"Looking at what?" the nosy teenager piped in, her sharp eyes already showed more understanding than Sam or Bobby hoped. But they've gone past caring discussing the situation in front of other people now. "Looking at what?"

"My brother's in Hell," Sam replied, in a low voice, looking away from them, "A year ago, I died, and he sold his soul to get me back. They gave him a year to live, and they dragged him down there... yesterday. We thought... we thought we'd have enough time to find a way to save him. We were wrong. And now he's there and I'm... here."

There really wasn't anything anyone could say about that.

"First things first," said Bobby, "We gotta get your brother somewhere safe, and two, we need more hands."

"You ah," Sam said, "You know I got no one else, Bobby."

"I got a few people I could round up."

"No," Sam said, lowering his voice, "There are... few I could trust with this. Because... because there might be options open to us with me being what I am. Other hunters might try to stop us."

Bobby's brows furrowed. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Sam glanced at the teenager and the EMT. "Later," he muttered.

"Missouri and the Harvelles all right?" Bobby asked.

"Just Missouri and Ellen for now," Sam agreed, "And if Ellen allows it, then Jo too."

"You got it."

" " "

It was time to start calling in favors and not just hands, Sam decided. They needed a place where they wouldn't be found, so this excluded any of their known haunts including Bobby's place, which had become like a second home to him and Dean (their first home, of course, being the Impala). And so he called in the most tenacious real estate developer he had ever known.

Larry reminded Sam of his own overbearing father, the late, the great, John Winchester. If John Winchester was the superstar of the hunting scene, Larry was his real estate, white picket fence counterpart. It was ridiculous to even think of hunting and the business of real estate in the same plane, but then there it was. If John Winchester were into real estate, he'd be like Larry. Same way if he'd been into homebuilding he'd be fricking Martha Stewart.

Sam and Dean had saved Larry's family from certain death in a cursed land in Oklahoma. They all came out of that one ridiculously bee-stung, but scarred was inarguably always, _always _better than dead. Larry was every bit as grateful as his son Matt had indicated in his post on the _Ghostfacers_ website. Sam ended up with a two-month lease on a large house in a new development just outside Indiana, a ten-minute drive to a state-of-the-art new hospital. He had specified that, when making his request. He had to be ready for any condition Dean would be in, once restored to him. There was also a nearby Biggerson's there, so that he'd have a place to get free food. It was a mild quirk, but he and Dean really had taken to the place after Sam won that free meal ticket there after that Black Rock debacle, and it was a kind-of happy place he could take Dean to, once he felt better.

'_Felt better?'_, he thought, catching himself. It was a stupid, monumental understatement, wasn't it? Dean was flat-out, categorically_ dead_. To think of him 'feeling better' was like calling Ebola a cold. But he couldn't, and wouldn't look at things any other way. He was going to get Dean back. He was going to get his brother back exactly as he was when he had lost him. Noisy, whining and hungry.

_Jerk_.

_Come back to me._

" " "

Elsewhere

" " "

Dean didn't realize how much of a stranger his mother actually was to him, until the hideous replay of her murder finally got to the end of its run and his vision was switched to seeing his father die, this time around.

It hurt infinitely, incomparably more.

Mom was a dream, she was his beloved but ultimately distant goddess. His father, on the other hand, was his superhero. Sam was his world, sure, but his dad... his dad was the sun. Blinding, burning at times, but he just shone like a beacon to Dean. _See me. Shine on me. Like me. Be proud of me. Love me._

Everyone saw clean right through it. He remembered how, shortly after his father died, he had to look through the torture of everyone else looking at him. The nurses and the doctors at the hospital. God, he had to get out of there. Their sorry, staring eyes were burning through him. He wanted them to shove their condolences where the sun don't shine. He wanted to tear that place apart.

There too was his stupid kid brother always, always checking if he was "okay." _Okay_? _Really_? It wasn't one of Stanford's finer moments, that's for sure. Monumental, ridiculous understatement.

Then there was Bobby Singer and his cloudy eyes, shaded by that cap that was situated just a little bit lower that week. Enter Ellen Harvelle days later, a total stranger at the time, with her warm eyes, looking at him like only a woman could. He thought he was gonna bawl right then and there.

Why the hell was everyone saying sorry to him? It was _Samantha_ who couldn't get rid of the waterworks, for chrissakes.

Even shithead demons knew about that gaping chink in his armor.

..._You know, you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is….they don't need you. Not like you need them. Sam - he's clearly John's favorite. Even when they fight, it's more concern than he's ever shown you..._

God, even obtuse as he often seemed, _his own father_ knew that.

..._You know, when you were a kid, I'd come home from a hunt. And after what I'd seen, I'd be... I'd be wrecked. And you'd come up to me, and you'd put your hand on my shoulder, and you'd look me in the eye, and you'd say "It's okay, Dad." Dean... I'm sorry..._

_...You shouldn't have had to say that to me. I should've been saying that to you. You know, I put... I put too much on your shoulders, I made you grow up too fast. You took care of Sammy, and you took care of me. You did that. And you didn't complain, not once. I just want you to know that I am so proud of you..._

_Yeah, sure you were_, Dean thought, glumly,_ Shortly before you keeled over and died for me and consequently ruined the rest of my life._

He honestly still felt like a sack of shit for making his father do that. Why would John Winchester do such a stupid, stupid thing, trading his life for Dean's? Not to say he was a hypocrite; Dean did the same to Sam too, after all. But then Sam's different. Sam's special. Sam's smart. Sam's..._Sam._ And it's Dean's job to look after him. But dad... dad still had a job to do. The world couldn't afford to lose a hunter like John Winchester, especially if what they got left with was _him_ instead.

And so, hell being, well, _Hell_, it struck him where it hurt him most. The assault had begun with the crippling, repeated, _high-fucking-definition_ front row seat to his mother's murder. And now, John's death began to replay right before his very eyes, the memory claiming every sense in his body.

He could smell the detergent on his father's clothes.

He could smell it mingled with his sweat.

He felt the heat from his breathy whisper. _Watch out for Sammy. Save him. Kill hi-- What the hell?!_

He felt the brush of the stubble on his chin.

He saw his father's eyes glisten and shine, veiled by his tears.

Again, with borrowed eyes, he could not have known his father any better than he did in that moment. He felt like he knew him inside-out. Every single parcel of his father, he was reintroduced to. Just before it was wrenched from him.

His father, collapsing. Sammy on his knees. His brother's echoing, terrified cry. The smell of bad coffee spilled on the floor. Charred skin as the machines tried to pull his father back to the world of the living. The flat, unforgettable, eternal sound of death.

And then it began again.

And then it went on again after that.

Somewhere inside him, he knew it was all a memory. His crazy father had walked out of hell somehow, and all that he had to worry about was himself, chained in hell. But once the show began, it was consuming, and there was nothing else, nothing else to see but his father dying, over and over and over again. And there was just no way to stop it.

" " "

Indiana

" " "

_Sam Winchester_, his daughter had said, and so after informing Winchester of the surgery's outcome, and as he waited for Jessie's kidnapper to call him back, Troy Brennan got online and wondered who the hell this guy was and why his daughter would not only know him, but be assured that she was safe in his hands.

The first thing he found was a kick to the gut. The man was wanted by the FBI for a cacophony of insane charges. The second thing he found was that Winchester was already supposed to be dead. The last thing he found was that he was supposed to be some sort of a cult hero.

_Christ, what the heck is going on here?_

He read on, about his enemy. He had dismissed the heroic praise as some sort of weird following. Even psycho serial killers had fans, after all. But the commentary was wide-ranging, and insistent. And Winchester _was_ supposed to be dead except somehow, he wasn't. The more he read, the more strange his situation became.

Not to mention more and more oddball stories were coming out of New Harmony.

_Jesus, what's going on here_?

" " "

"Sam?"

Sam looked up at Bobby, "You got something?"

"Not... quite," Bobby winced, "Sam... I just thought of something."

"What?"

"The last time Lilith took over a town," Bobby said, his voice shaking, as he glanced at the two sleeping women in the living room, "She cleaned up after herself, didn't she? Made sure her tracks were covered. That the things that happened were kept a secret from the world? She tore that place down. Killed everyone, made it look like a freaky gas leak."

"You think we can expect the same thing for New Harmony?" Sam asked, anxiously. He had been focused on Dean, damn it, and he had every right to be.

"I don't know," Bobby admitted, "I honestly don't, kid."

"Bobby," Sam hesitated, "Ruby said that there was a reason Lilith was afraid of me. When she... I don't know exactly, what she was trying to do. She raised up her hand, and there was this, this light. All I wanted was to stop her. Dean had stopped screaming. I thought he was dead. I was so mad. And all I wanted was to stop her."

Bobby was staring at him. He couldn't watch the old man's face any more.

"And what?" Bobby asked, quietly.

"And then nothing," Sam whispered, "Whatever she was trying to do, it just... it _didn't_. And then she just looked scared. She backed down. She left."

Bobby's brows furrowed. "Sam..."

"Ruby was right about that, wasn't she?" Sam asked, "Whatever she may have lied about, she was right about that one thing. That I could stop Lilith."

"What are you saying?"

"You think she'll be coming after the town?" Sam asked, "You think she'll be cleaning up her mess?"

"Anyone in that town who may have known what happened is in the hospital where Dean is," Bobby pointed out, "If she wants to clean up her mess, that's the place she'll tear down."

"We gotta go," Sam said, beginning to gather her things.

"Sam," Bobby grabbed his arm, "And do what?"

"If I could stop her there--"

"Stop her with what?" Bobby retorted, "You don't even know what the hell you got."

"I don't care," Sam snapped, "I don't care anymore, Bobby. I got the knife. I got dibs on where she might be. Dean's in danger. All the people there are. We gotta _go_."

" " "

Sam Winchester had a baby-brother's innate, bitching self-absorption that he couldn't shake off, heroism and bravery aside. Dean had spoiled him that way, Bobby supposed. Sam was hungry and single-minded, and he fully expected to be supported. It made him a very, very compelling man to follow. It made people around him believe. He was just so damn sure, all the time.

He had done it for school. He had the same approach to researching and formulating strategies for a hunt. Now he was using it to save his brother. It was both scary and reassuring.

Even as a child, Sam had never been the _please-help-me_ type of guy. He said it once in awhile, sure, god knows how but John raised an alien, polite kid. But Sam was really more of the _I-can-do-it-watch-me_ type.

_Keep fighting, Dean_, the veteran hunter though, prayed, _whatever_.

_Your brother's coming. You just gotta keep fighting_.

" " "

Elsewhere

" " "

Dean gasped himself 'awake,' or whatever it was this default state was, chained and looking up to an infinite sick-green sky, hanging over a bottomless pit. Sensations of his father's death faded slowly from his five senses; the sight of John arching upwards as electricity coursed through his body. The sound of the flat line. The smell of charred flesh and bad coffee on the floor. The tears from his eyes. The taste of bile in his mouth.

When they faded completely, he realized suddenly that he wasn't alone.

_What the hell_?

"Hello, Dean," Ruby – and Dean was sure it was truly her this time – was sitting on some chains near his arm, her legs dangling. She still had on her borrowed human face.

He closed his eyes, tried to find both his voice and his sarcasm.

"I guess I really _am _in hell," he told her, hoarsely. But the tone was as sardonic as ever, "Who the hell am I gonna see next? Bela?"

"That's the spirit," she snapped back, but her eyes were aglow with a weird appreciation that he still somehow retained his sense of humor or, in the absence of genuine spirit, his game face at least. He frowned at her. She looked as battered as he felt, maybe even slightly worse. She had holes not just in her tattered clothes, but even on her body, as if she had been meat-chained the way he currently was. There was even a fricking _hole_ on her left cheek, as if one of the chains had gone through that way.

They looked at each other thoughtfully. He was wondering if she was really there, or it was another elaborate way to torture him. And of course, as always, he was also wondering what the hell side she was playing for. God knows what she was thinking about, looking back at him.

"You know where you are?" she asked him.

"Is that a trick question?" he snapped.

Ruby scoffed at him. "You actually think this is Hell. Seriously."

"I made a deal," Dean retorted, "I got picked up by hellhounds. Oh, and yeah, it really sucks. What the hell am I supposed to think?"

It was strange, he found his voice getting stronger again. Maybe he just needed a distraction. And Ruby being Ruby, she also inspired aggression.

"This is the Waldorf Astoria, genius," she told him.

"The what?"

She rolled back her eyes, "I've been dead for centuries and I have a better grasp of culture than you. We are in Lilith's backyard. You're where the dog dumps the treat his master told him to go fetch."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, "_Not _to say I trust you, bitch, but, just for the sake of me not having anything better to do. Besides, she did say she put you away where you couldn't cook up any more of your usual shit."

"She said that?"

"I paraphrase liberally."

Ruby shrugged, "Lilith doesn't have the following that Azazel did, at least, not yet. She dumps you in hell and the demons down there will tear you apart, like they have a few other hunters who came in there. She wouldn't be able to call everyone off. And she wants you kept intact, for now. That's why you're here and not there."

"Why?"

"You're her biggest asset against Sam," Ruby said, "She needs you as leverage against your brother. So you go enjoy your time here while it lasts. This is just a teensy taste of what's going to be going on down there. This is five-star."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Dean asked, "What's in it for you?"

"I still want Lilith wiped off the face of everywhere," Ruby said, "But this is an old tune, isn't it? You've never believed me before, you won't believe me now."

"How do I know she didn't just plant you here to jerk me around?" Dean asked.

"You can't," Ruby replied, "Manipulative liar, _whatever_, its the least of my sins. Tell you what, though. I don't know why she didn't just kill me, she does have the Colt with her. I think it's because she doesn't want me out of my misery just yet, but you'd have to ask her that. She didn't send me down to hell because I've kicked asses down there before. I've even_ escaped_ from there before.I'm in her back pocket because she thinks she can really, truly punish me here. But guess what," she raised her arms and shook them. One of her _arms_ had holes in them too. "She's busy, and I got free and I'm outta here."

"To where?" Dean asked.

She looked down at the seemingly bottomless pit that the two of them were hanging by chains over. "Down there is hell. All I gotta do is jump."

"Is that better than this place?" Dean asked, "I thought you said it was worse."

"It is," she said, "But that place is not in her control, not yet. Down there, I can hide from her. Down there, I have a chance at getting back out." She looked at him, pointedly, "Down there, if you hide well enough, she won't be able to use you against your brother."

"You want me to go down there with you?!"

"You don't have to stick with me," she said, "But I don't want you left here, to be used against Sam."

"You are off your rocker, sweetheart--"

"I won't ask again," Ruby snapped, "I'm getting out of here, before she knows I'm off the chains. I'm getting out of here, while she's busy out there, doing god knows what. So make up your mind."

He gulped. Was he just supposed to trust her?

Not trust, Sam had said, _Use._

Besides, why would Lilith do this crap, anyway? What was the point of putting him in some sort of hell and then letting him escape into another form of hell, one that was presumably worse? Hell is hell. It didn't matter, did it? At least this way, he had some sort of action, instead of just lying here...

"I'm going."

Her brows rose. Surprised, but pleased. "All right," she said, shifting her weight, moving toward his arm. He winced, as she touched the chains on his body, wondering how to go about setting him free.

"But Dean," she said, "I gotta tell you. If you're lying there thinking things couldn't possibly get any worse and you might as well just go along with me, you'd be wrong. Things can get plenty worse."

He said nothing for a long moment, just grunted and winced and watched her work on his bonds.

"I don't know when it happened, exactly," he said, quietly, "But Sam... it kinda just came at me, I guess. He just knew what he wanted and how to go about it. He thought he could listen to you. I don't know why, but he was so sure. I got nothing else right now but you, and Sam thinking he could listen to you. That's all I got to go on. So I just gotta _go_."

She paused from her work, looked at him wistfully, before she nodded, as if coming to a decision.

"This is gonna hurt," she warned him, "I can't loosen the chains at all, there's no room to shift away from the hook. You wanna get free? You gotta part from some skin."

"Bring it on, sister-- Fuck!" he exclaimed, as she pulled at the hook that tore a good chunk of flesh from his shoulder. When he fell back, he swung from the remaining hooks on the rest of his body, making the pain there flare also.

"Hang on," she said, grabbing him by the shirt and hauling him up. "Grab a chain, hang on, while I get the rest."

He grunted, but did as he was told. She freed his other shoulder next, and he held his weight by shaking arms clinging to a chain, as she freed his legs. It hurt like hell, but it was liberating when he was finally free enough that his legs dangled below him as he hung on by his arms. It was like his body was his again.

"Now what?" he asked her, breathlessly, feeling nauseated with pain and inexplicable, overwhelming relief.

"Now we let go," she said, smiling tightly, as if daring him.

"Right," he muttered, still cautious, "You know what they say, ladies first."

"Wuss," she said, as she slid from her perch and let herself fall.

He watched her for an indefinable moment.

"You better be right about her, Sammy," he muttered under his breath, "'Cos here goes nothing."

He let go.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	4. Chapter 4

Author:Mirrordance

Title: Home Road

Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.

" " "

Home Road

" " "

4

" " "

Indiana

" " "

"Is this really necessary?" the precocious teenager asked him hotly, as she was tied up back to back with the frowning EMT.

"Not for long," Sam replied with a grunt, tightening the bonds, "A nice lady will be coming by in a few hours. She'll take care of you. I just need to be sure you won't do anything crazy."

"But you already know I believe you!" Jessie whined, "I'm not calling the cops. I'm not escaping. I'm not calling my dad to say I'm free so he can screw with your brother. I won't do anything."

"Do I look like I want to take chances?" Sam snapped.

"What if I wanna go to the bathroom?"

"I asked that earlier, didn't I?" Sam retorted.

"Well when you asked, I didn't know you were gonna tie me up!"

"Live with it," Sam told her, finishing his knot with a flourish. Bobby wished Dean were here to take a look at his younger brother having to deal with a fellow-smart-ass. _Proof positive for Karma_.

"Ellen's an hour out," Bobby assured the teenager and the silent EMT tied up behind her.

"What else did she say?" Sam asked, as the two hunters grabbed their gear and locked the door to the condominium behind them, "Is she calling in Jo?"

"She asked me if we really needed the hands," Bobby replied, "I said yes. She said she can live with that. 'Sides... the two of them haven't been together in awhile. I'm thinking Ellen knows if there's two things that could bring her pissed-off daughter to come back to her, it would be Dean or a hunt. In this case, its both, ain't it?"

"Missouri?"

"She thinks you boys are idiots," Bobby said, "But then again so do I and I'm still here. She's coming."

"Good," Sam said with a nod.

"Whatcha got in yer head, boy?"

"Not sure yet," Sam admitted, "I just... I'm not sure how much any of us can do for Dean at this point, but either way, I feel like... like, if Lilith's declaring war, I gotta have everyone I care about in the same place, right now. Know what I mean?"

Bobby nodded, "Yeah."

" " "

_I guess this makes you my star patient_, Troy Brennan thought, looking down at the body of Dean Winchester. He had looked at stock photos of Dean, watched video footage online. Dean looked nothing like himself, Brennan reflected. Then again, no one in this condition ever resembled their old selves anyway.

Where the photos had shown him stocky, he now looked withered and so strangely small. There was a fire in his eyes that was obviously now absent. He looked so flat and dead and empty. Pasty white like he was translucent except there was just nothing to see inside either.

Dean Winchester was supposed to be some sort of rebel. He was so damned kinetic, in the videos. From what little Troy had seen and read, it was not a surprise that Dean's brother would be so devoted to him. Still... _Who the hell are you, really_?

Brennan felt like he was harboring a criminal except theoretically, this criminal was supposed to be dead, the FBI files had written him off. He was dead _twice over_. Possibly even _thrice_, if he was being truly representative. Dean Winchester had been shot dead in the process of an attempted murder. And months later he was also torn apart by a gas explosion while in police custody. And then yesterday, he was dragged to Brennan's emergency room, assuredly dead by exsanguination.

_Where are you gonna be tomorrow, huh_?

"Doctor Brennan?"

He jumped, at the voice of the night shift nurse of the section who appeared by the door of the recovery room.

"Christ, Cindy, you scared the crap out of me."

She flinched, and for a long, odd moment, he thought her clear, blue eyes turned pitch black on him. He blinked to clear his vision. He must be really, really tired.

"You're needed at the ER," she said, "As main attending at the time of the New Harmony emergency, there are some people there with questions."

"Oh," he replied, walking toward her, sighing and running a hand through his hair, "Like I'd know what to tell them."

She shrugged, and stepped aside so that he may walk ahead of her. She nodded at the occupant in the room, mostly machine-obscured.

"Is he from there too?"

The lie came easy. He wasn't supposed to be telling anyone about Dean Winchester, or else his daughter was in danger.

"Nah."

" " "

Hell

" " "

Dean fell for ever.

He screamed at the start, and then it kind of just faded out from there. One of the funniest things he had ever seen in his life was, was it _Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey?_ How these two doofuses once fell in this inky black hellish hole and screamed, except the hole was so deep the first scream ended and they had to take a breath to start up a new one. Was that from there?

_It was something like that_.

He wasn't thinking straight.

Hell, he wasn't supposed to.

The memory of his father's death assaulted him again, mid-flight, or mid-fall, or whatever it was this weird suspension was supposed to be. Somewhere in his head, he shouted out a curse to Ruby for getting him into this incomprehensible situation, but then after that, he let himself be sucked in to his John Winchester nightmare, the way these things always seemed to grab him, no matter what he did or, in this case, no matter where he was.

Five senses: Sam's iron grip on his arm, his father on the floor, charred flesh of a failed revival, bile in his throat, dull flatline of a dead heart.

Five senses: flat, bitter taste of the tube that had come from his throat, his father's body arching from the bed, the smell of coffee on the floor, hot tears on his cheeks, and the cold, matter-of-fact proclamation of _Time of death, 10:41_.

He could remember everything that happened around his father's death in full, sensual glory. Five senses. A different set of five. A permutation of all the different sets. Five times five times five senses... _God_, he thought, _Make it stop._

" " "

Dean opened his eyes slowly, and took a deep, shaky breath. Someone left a running lawnmower in his chest. He coughed roughly, and focused his gaze on the face that hovered above his.

"Rough landing."

_Ruby_, he thought, groaning as he pushed himself up to his elbows._ Hell. Right_.

He looked around him. He was in a dark, stiflingly hot cave of rough, red-brown rock. The lighting was a dull orange coming from the mouth, about twenty or so feet away from them. They were in deep, and the sandy ground beneath him was _moving_.

"Eww," he exclaimed, realizing the damn place was crawling with bugs.

"Don't be such a girl," she told him, settling back on her haunches before him as he pushed himself up to sit. They looked at each other for a long, measuring moment.

"How long was I out?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Long," she replied with a shrug, "Hard to tell, out here. Long enough for me to find us a hole and drag us inside so yeah, long enough."

He reddened a little in embarrassment, he thought, and was relieved for the cover of the nauseatingly dull, orange light.

Ruby tilted her head at him in an expression of wonder. "It's going to get easier."

"What do you mean?"

"The visions," she replied, "I know you're getting them. Everyone does. It's going to get easier."

"Ha," he scoffed, finding the idea hilarious.

"It is," she insisted, "But then again, that's what you should be afraid of."

"Why?"

"Hell isn't just physical torture, you know that," Ruby explained, "They show you things, make you think things. You're an easy one to read. I bet it has something to do with the late, great daddy Winchester, mommy, and of course, little Sammy."

Dean contemplated lying. Realized he was too exhausted. "Two out of three," he admitted gruffly.

"They'll get to Sam soon enough," Ruby assured him, knowing full well that it was thoughts of Sam that haven't tortured Dean just yet; otherwise, he'd be a worse mess. Sam was his greatest weakness.

"They're saving the worst for last," she continued, "You ah... you wanna know what could possibly make a man forget that he was once human, out here? You want to know how to make a monster? They do it in stages. The first thing they do is kill your hope. To kill hope is to shrink the world. There is no tomorrow, there is no elsewhere but here. There is no escape. There is no salvation. This is it. This is forever."

Dean thought about that. Thought about being chained as he had been, the world around him unmoving and unchanging. All there was was his screaming, and his voice was beginning to run out. No one could hear him. He was alone. There was nothing there but him. There was no one there but him. There was nowhere to go. There was no tomorrow, there was no elsewhere but there. There was no escape. There was no salvation. That had been it, _forever--_

"And then," Ruby continued, "They make the inescapable unbearable. They will come at you with the worst that could hurt you."

Dean imagined, and it was so easy to imagine despairing things in this hole, that the chains that kept him immobile and suspended would have tightened, taking, taking just a little bit more flesh, making him scream, assuring him that there was always enough breath to scream in pain, in hell. Of all things that could have been made eternal, there was always enough breath to scream in pain. But this torture would have been nothing, nothing at all next to the memories of his mother, father and brother dying. Again and again. Over and over. Watching it, from every conceivable view--

"But pain is good for one thing," she went on, "It's clearly external. It was something you were _subject_ to. Something _you_ had to suffer. Because there was pain, you knew there was a _you_ to feel it, to fight it, to survive it. Some people think of hell and equate it to the worst possible pain, and in a sense it's true. Out here, it is easy to inflict pain. But only the best demons know how to push pain to the point where the you it is subject to actually dies. The you dies when the pain becomes so great that it is easier to be numb, easier to forget, than to bear it. You love so much that you hurt. You hurt so much that you would rather not love. In choosing not to love, you have damned yourself. You see... the best demons know that it is your love that turns you to hate, because love and hate are not opposites, Dean. They are brothers.

"So tell me," she asked, "Back there. Thinking about your mom and dad. Was it getting any easier?"

_For mom, yes_, he realized, and it was like a kick to the gut. If he had more time, he might have started looking at different things too, in his visions of his father.

"No," he lied.

"Good," she said, not at all looking convinced, "Many souls here overload, short-circuit, and then move around not seeing, hearing, not feeling. Empty shell people, doomed to walk in their aimless circles. Others become unbearably selfish, unrestrained in pursuing the things that they want. Relentless. Unrepentant. The progression is not too hard to imagine, is it? Here, all you have to look out for is yourself. If you think about it, we both know someone who's been down that monster road and who'll undoubtedly be heading that way again."

"Who?" Dean asked, though he already had his suspicions...

"Sam."

" " "

Indiana

" " "

"Hang on," Brennan said to the nurse leading him toward the emergency rooms, trying to make a grab for his insistently ringing phone. It snagged on the lint of his doctor's coat pocket.

"You may wish to handle that later, doctor," she told him, mildly, "People are waiting for you--"

He shot his head up at her in irritation, his temper shortened by weariness and frustration and just the general strangeness of that night, "God, Cindy, hang on, will 'ya? They're not going anywhere, for chrissakes--"

He paused and frowned, when she winced again. He blinked at the minuscule sight of her pale blues going pitch black again.

"I am losing my mind," he muttered to himself, fishing for his phone and finally successfully drawing it out.

"You have a dirty mouth, Doctor," she told him.

"Excuse me," he said, stepping away from her and answering the call, "What?"

"Brennan," It was Sam Winchester - "I need you to do something for me."

"Great, what now--"

"Shut up and listen," Winchester snapped, "We don't have much time. Every window and door to Dean's room, I need you to line it with salt."

"What?!"

"Just do it," Sam said, "Right now. _Now_. This moment. I got Jessie--"

"I know, damn it," Brennan spat out.

"It's a hospital, you got a church there, right?"

"Yeah..."

"Grab some holy water," Sam said, "Grab a sip, and keep a flask or a jar or any container of it on you. Anyone there starts acting weird, splash them with it, all right? Something's coming for the people there. I'm headed that way but you need to act fast, all right? Watch out for electrical disturbances. And pitch black eyes, especially when you say God's name--"

"What?" Brennan asked, breathlessly, stealing a glance at the nurse blinking at him expectantly.

"I know it sounds ridiculous," Sam said, "But--"

"Say that part again," Brennan said, lowering his voice, "About the eyes--"

The lights overhead began to flicker.

"Oh crap," Brennan breathed, as the line got cut off.

" " "

"We need to go faster, Bobby," Sam said tightly to the older hunter, who had a white-knuckled grip on the speeding Impala, as he pocketed his cellphone, having written off the call as dropped.

"Don't I know it," Bobby muttered, pressing on the gas.

" " "

Hell

" " "

"What?" Dean asked, brows furrowing.

"Sam," Ruby replied with a shrug, "He's been down that road before, and I'm betting he'll be headed that way again."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Her eyes bore into him, narrowing in thought and lightening in realization. "Well, well. Good old Sammy. How typical, keeping secrets again."

"What the hell are you talking about?" growled Dean, sounding infinitely more threatening, even if the words had been said once before.

"Easy," she told him, mildly, weighing her words, "You know that mystery spot incident?"

"How the hell does everybody know about us--"

"Your resident trickster has a soft spot," she said, "And a big mouth. Demi-gods are supposed to be beyond picking sides but our lives are just games and bets to them. He fell for Sammy's puppy dog eyes, like most everyone does."

"You're not making any sort of sense--"

"You died," she spat out, "_Every day_ to him, for over a hundred days. In every conceivable fashion. He was made to watch, every single time."

"I know that," Dean said, uncomfortably, "He did not turn into some sort of a monster--"

"That was just stage one, idiot," she snapped, "Sound familiar? There was no hope, there was nothing he could do. And then _the inescapable was _made_ unbearable_. It hurt him, every time. After that... well, you died and you died for real. No more repeating Tuesdays. No more second chances. He thought watching you die over and over was killing him, but the finality of it was worse. You died, and didn't come back. He lived with you being dead for months, Dean. _Months_."

"But it wasn't real," Dean said, "And I came back--"

"Everything about it was real," she corrected him, "His reactions were real. His pain was real. Time moved like it was supposed to. You were dead for _months_. He looked for distraction, killed everything that got in his way, working his way toward your killer. You wouldn't know him if you saw him, Dean. None of us did."

Dean frowned, in memory.

_You sure you're okay?_

_I just had a really weird dream_.

He wondered, why his brother suddenly seemed so different. In his mind, he slept on a Tuesday and woke up on a Wednesday and his brother _just. wasn't. the same_. He couldn't put his finger on it. Lonely eyes. Consuming quiet. That one time he brought provisions good for just one, and Dean couldn't find the heart to give him a hard time about it because he looked so damn ill-at-ease and so inexplicably angry at himself.

"But he wasn't a monster," Dean said, quietly.

"He killed Singer," Ruby said, flatly, "In all fairness, he also suspected him of being the trickster, but he wasn't sure. He was willing to risk it. He was willing to risk _somebody_. This doesn't sound new, does it? And now here you are. Dead and hellbound. Would it be so strange to think he'll be finding novel ways to damn himself just to get you out?"

"He'll be fine," Dean insisted, his mouth unbelievably turning dryer, "He's _Sam_. My brother. He'll be fine--"

"It's love that turns you to hate, remember?" she asked him, "They are not opposites--"

"He won't turn," Dean said, flatly, "Anyway, it doesn't matter, 'cos I'm getting myself out of here."

_Before Sammy does something crazy_, he thought, but kept it to himself.

He smiled a little, in self-deprecation, "But that's the question of the fucking century, isn't it? How the hell do I do something like that?"

TO BE CONTINUED...


	5. Chapter 5

Author:Mirrordance

Title: Home Road

Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.

" " "

Home Road

" " "

5

" " "

Indiana

" " "

"Crap," Sam breathed, watching the lights on the small hospital building blink, as he and Bobby drove in closer.

"You still got that mojo with you?" Bobby asked, voice low and tight, "She won't know we're near?"

"Yeah, I got it," Sam murmured distractedly, looking at the building and trying to come up with a plan, "Park a block off."

Bobby did as he was told, and pulled the Impala to a quiet stop.

"Devil's trap," Sam said, "If they're in there, we're keeping them in there and powerless. Dean and I have cans of spray paint and chalk in the trunk. We need to make it unseen, and wide as we can make it."

"I got the roof, you get the basement?" Bobby asked, "They'll get stuck in the middle wondering what the hell."

"_I'll_ get the roof," Sam corrected, knowing that Bobby picked it for the danger. The high ground was also the most strategic and dangerous to claim, and he did not want the old hunter placed in any more harm than he had already put himself in for the sake of the Winchesters.

"Then," he said, "We spike the water supply with holy water for some sprinkler action. On top of that, We'll do a 'Dean' and PA a mass exorcism."

" " "

Sam burst out into the night sky on the hospital roof.

It was hard sneaking around to anywhere in his bulk, but he managed through it, most days. He was almost breathing relief, actually, until he unceremoniously ran into something solid and fleshy and jittery on the roof.

"Ooof!" he exclaimed, landing in a tangled heap on the floor.

His 'assailant' was a young-ish, wide-eyed, stunned-looking blond man. Whose first reaction, even on his rump on the floor, was to splash cold water on Sam's face and say, "Christ."

It took a moment for things to register in Sam's Stanford-worthy brain.

"You learn fast," he commented, wryly, blinking and wiping his face with his sleeve. Holy water. _Nice_.

"Winchester?" Troy Brennan asked, breathlessly.

"Relax, I'm clean," Sam said, gathering his feet and closing the door to the stairwell behind him. He offered his hand to the still-stunned doctor.

"Where's my daughter?" he asked.

"Safer than you or me," Sam said, peering at him closely, "But I think you know that by now."

"They were getting everyone into the emergency room," he said, numbly accepting Sam's help, "I was on the way there with this nurse. It didn't feel right. And her eyes kept shifting pitch black. I thought I was losing my mind. Told her I had to go to the bathroom. It wasn't so much of a lie, I thought I was gonna pee myself. I climbed up the vent. I crawled off of there, and right below me, I could hear them looking for me, shuffling, growling..." he shuddered at the memory.

Sam shoved a can of salt he had drawn out of his duffel into the doctor's arms. "Line the door, the exhaust, just every hole that leads to the roof. We can't be disturbed here. Did you do the same for my brother's room?"

"Doors and windows," Brennan replied, head nodding jerkily.

"Is he in the emergency room?" Sam asked.

"A floor up," Brennan answered, "In recovery. And I told them he wasn't from New Harmony. What are they doing? What the hell is going on here."

"No time," Sam said, as he began drawing out his writing materials, "But I can promise you this: help me, and we'll make it. And then I'll tell you what's going on."

"I'm a logical guy," Brennan rambled, "I can't just--"

"They're gonna kill everyone who was in New Harmony," Sam snapped, "And everyone who might know something about it. For some reason, my fucking salt and drawings can stop them. We can Q and A later. Just do your part."

" " "

Bobby finished scrawling on the basement floor just as his cellular phone vibrated in his pocket. He grabbed it right away and placed it against his ear. "Sam?"

"You done with the 'trap and the water?"

"Just," Bobby replied with a grunt, putting his things together. Sam had lent him Dean's duffel and all that it contained. He always wondered what was in there. Kid was like _The Mask_, drawing out all these weird things from the bottomless old bag. It had been John's, Bobby recognized, as most of Dean's things were, and then just _appropriated_. It was very casually, and just-barely-tolerably messy. He had a feeling the owner knew exactly where to find everything was, though.

"I'm with Brennan," Sam said.

"You boys with Dean?"

The veteran hunter imagined the pained wince.

"Soon," Sam replied, tightly, "But he's all salted and everything. We might have time. Meet me at the Security Room." A voice in the background – Brennan's, Bobby supposed - "Fourth floor, east side, room 4015."

"Got it," Bobby said, slinging the bag over his shoulder, "On my way now."

He kept up the stealth, as he wove his way past empty, dimly-lit corridors. While the devils traps he and Sam put up on the roof and on the basement effectively sandwiched the demons that fell in between and they were consequently powerless to leave or exert unnatural forces within it, that didn't mean a good number of them couldn't physically hurt him if he was found.

The doctor's directions were accurate, and when Bobby cautiously slid the door to the Security Room open, Sam's gun was trained on his face half a breath later.

"_Cristo_," Bobby said with a cool shrug, as soon as his heart stopped racing. Sam Winchester could be a scary mother when his eyes burned like that.

Sam lowered the gun, and casually introduced the two men to each other, "Bobby, Brennan. Brennan, Bobby."

"Hi," the doctor said, wincing at the awkwardness of such a meeting. Bobby just looked at him wryly. It was his _Welcome-to-the-club_ expression, the one that pretty much told people, _Yeah, life's like this. Live with it_.

Bobby stepped into the room, and quietly closed the door behind him. He checked if the line of salt running along the door was still intact. Sam was focused on the series of screens posted along the wall, showing real-time caps of the shifting security cameras from all around the hospital. He fiddled with the controls on the console.

"Seems like they're all in the emergency room," Bobby said, squinting at one of the screens, "I'm making out about eight demons, but hard to see with this piss-poor resolution. They've already figured out something's going on."

The figures in question were moving in the space erratically, like a bunch of frustrated, caged animals.

"One way to find out," Sam said from under his breath, grabbing the microphone to activate the PA system.

Bobby watched, as off-the-top of his head, ol' Stanford started rattling off one of the most powerful, intricate Latin exorcisms he had ever heard of. This wasn't your simplified, _Cliff's Notes_ version, no. Sam had gone old school and Bobby had never heard of any hunter with a tongue like that, not to mention he was reciting it out of memory.

_Where the hell did John pick up this kid...?_

Sam paused from the ritual, to watch the security screens and the anguished reactions to just the barest part of the ritual. "You still got a good eye, Bobby. Eight it is," he said, tapping at the screens. From a sidelong glance, he added, "And stop looking at me like that."

Bobby's brows rose, ignored the commentary. "Would you know which one Lilith is?"

Sam squinted. "Body language doesn't indicate referral to a particular leader in their group. We should hit the sprinklers. Ruby said with Lilith's 'paygrade,' she isn't sweatin' the holy water."

"So we soak 'em," agreed Bobby, "And see who ends up all right. Gotta turn on those sprinklers."

"There should be an emergency activation from here," Brennan said, "We were given the quick drill in case of a Code Black when I started. They had it installed, in case the automatic detectors didn't kick in."

"Where?" Sam asked, looking over the complicated console. He had a working knowledge of this thing, sure, but equipment specs like that weren't always standard, "And what's a Code Black?"

"That was years ago, lemme look," Brennan said, scooting over, "A Code Black's the worst that anyone can possibly think of that could happen in a hospital. Bomb threat, mass casualties, contagion, infant abductions..."

"Ever been in one before?" Bobby asked.

"No one would have ever thought about it," Brennan muttered, "But I guess today counts, huh? Here it is."

"Here goes nothing," Sam grunted, as he pressed the button, and carefully watched the screens.

" " "

Hell

" " "

They sat across from each other in that bug-infested cave. It didn't take long for Dean to realize there was an infestation of bold vermin too, these icky rats that stepped toward you, wanting to take a little bite, 'til you growl at them and shoo them away. He wondered how much longer that tack would be effective. Suckers just kept getting braver and braver...

"We gotta get out of here soon," Ruby said, probably thinking along the same lines. The rats had red eyes that glowed in the darker areas of the cave, lurking, watching. One set became two, then three, and the rest was probably busy calling all their other damned friends.

"Yeah," Dean winced.

_But go where_?

"I hate rats," he sighed.

Her lips quirked. He watched her face, wondering why he tended to amuse her.

"What?"

"Nothing," she shrugged, "You're likable. I didn't expect that."

His brows rose. Thinking back to another time, not too long ago at all, cooped up with another demon, not in a cave, sure, but caved in at a basement in a city drowning in sin. She had told him the same thing, basically. So did the fucking demon at the crossroads when he had sold his soul, come to think of it.

"I don't know why demon chicks keep saying that," he said, under his breath.

Ruby bit her lip in thought. "So, you've decided to stick with me, huh?"

"For now," he said, shifting uneasily. Wasn't about to admit he needed someone who knew even just a little bit more about this place than he did, no. Wasn't about to admit her presence was weirdly comforting, _hell _no.

"How do demons get out of here, usually?" he asked.

"That Demon's Gate of Colt was the big thing," she replied, "Everyone knew about it. All we had to do was claw our way to the mouth of the door and wait."

"Demons got out before that was opened, though," Dean pointed out, "Around ten possessions a year. Obviously the Gate hadn't been opened yet or else the problem would have been bigger. That means there are other ways."

"Some demons get summoned out," she answered, "Like Crossroads Demons. Some get wrenched out by rituals and spells that dumb humans unknowingly pull out of their asses."

"Basically if no one opens or calls from Up There," Dean said, "No one gets to get out of here."

"Yup," she replied.

"And if no one opens the Gate," said Dean, "Even if you claw your way to the top of the heap, you ain't going anywhere."

"You got it," she answered.

"So we don't get to do anything?" he asked.

"I can claw my way to the Gate," she said, almost casually, "I've done it before. Besides, if anymore screws get loose on your brother's head, that gate'll be opening soon so I wouldn't have to wait so long or fight so hard to keep my place. You, Dean... you just gotta keep hiding until you or Sam find another way."

His brows rose. _You're leaving me_ was unsaid in the air.

"But I'm in no rush," she said, flippantly, "I'm thinking I might get a better shot out of here if I stick with you."

"Why's that?"

"'Cos when you're brother's thinking straight," she said, "He really is one of the very best. And he doesn't have anything else in his head right now but getting you out of here."

Dean bit his lip, thoughtfully. He knew that, of course. The thought of it was comforting to him, but hearing it from somebody else, especially since it was so damn easy to lose hope down here, was making the feeling stronger. He was never one for just waiting to be saved, though.

He wondered if he could approach this escape from hell thing as a kind of case. Except, of course, he was unfortunately not equipped with a geek boy and his laptop sidekick to ask. He wasn't equipped with a networked Bobby or Ellen either. For that matter, being left to his own devices to investigate wasn't promising too; how was he supposed to be asking people questions when he was supposed to be hiding?

"The uh," Dean said, as he thought, "The Gate. What is that?"

"What do you mean?" Ruby asked.

"Was it always there?" Dean asked, "You know, is it a natural link between hell and Earth that Colt just found and blocked by constructing a gate? Or did someone actually make that opening?"

"What's your point?" she asked.

"If it's a natural phenomena," said Dean, "you know, naturally occurring, then maybe there's another one like it out here and we could find it, you know, like... like..." God, Sam was always much better at giving theoretical overviews, and he never bothered to improve himself in that field because his baby brother always seemed to understand his excited, inspired rambling, "Like when people look for diamonds, or, or oil or something like that. They look at soil properties, rock formations, that shit? If you find a set of traits and you follow 'em, then you get the prize. Is there something about the location of that gate that is like any other location here?"

"Hell isn't just geographic properties, Dean--" she began to say.

"I know, I know," the hunter snapped, with his favorite undertone of _I'm not stupid_ going unsaid, "It's just an example, all right? I'm not from fucking Stanford so suck it up. Did something happen at the site of that gate that made that fissure, that allowed a link between hell and Earth? Because whatever happened to make that hole, it could have happened somewhere else down here, 's all I'm saying. If it's not naturally occurring and someone made it, then we can find out how. Either way, it gives us something to do from down here."

"You want to search for another gate," she said, "Or make a new one."

"Welcome to the party, _shortbus_."

"I thought you didn't want to risk letting demons out," Ruby pointed out.

"That's why we're not gonna be telling anybody else," Dean replied, "If another exit exists, or can be made, obviously no one else knows about it, they're all piled up over Colt's gate. We can just sneak out, pretty as you please, then cover it up ala Samuel Colt. So. Was the Gate always there or did someone make it? Colt lived in the early 1800's, you said you were human when the plague was big. You pre-date Colt by four hundred years. Was the gate always there?"

"No," she replied, thoughtfully, "It wasn't."

"So what the hell happened?"

"You understand a few hundred years in hell tends to fuck around with your head," she said, "I guess I just heard about it. I'm not even sure from who. Everyone was headed for the Gate. So I went. The journey took forever. Clawing my way to the top was harder. Keeping my place there was near impossible."

"You never thought to ask how the hell that hole got there?"

"I was a little busy," she replied, dryly, "If I even thought about it, I was in no position to find the answer anyway."

"Is there anyone here who could possibly know the answer?" Dean asked.

"As it happens," Ruby said, looking intrigued, "I think I know someone who could."

" " "

Indiana

" " "

All eight demons were miserable under the holy water.

"She's not here," Sam said through grit teeth, "Damn it." He reached over, and killed the sprinklers. He picked phone receiver mounted on the wall. "Extension number to the ER," he snapped at Brennan.

"1114," the doctor replied, dumbly, looking confused, "Who's 'she?'"

Sam punched the numbers, and waited for his call to be answered. He watched the security screens carefully, at the growling and snarling demons who were trying to settle down. He kept the receiver on his ear, but reached for the microphone of the PA system. "Someone answer the goddamn phone," he commanded.

He watched, as one of the demons wearing a middle-aged nurse's meatsuit glared at the security camera but walked over to the ringing phone on the main desk at the ER.

"Sammy Winchester," she said, her voice slithery and thick.

Bobby picked up an extension of the line, and listened in.

"Where's Lilith?" Sam asked. No point in pleasantries, after all.

"Licking her wounds," came the vague reply, "She'll be more prepared for you when you next see each other. You should know by now we're still more afraid of her than of you, though. You won't be wrangling information out of any of us here, threats of exorcism or getting sent back to hell aside."

"Then I should just get on with it, shouldn't I?" Sam said, sourly.

"You should," came the mild reply, "Tell you what, though, none of these borrowed meatsuits are coming out of this alive, I can promise you that. I'm biting off this nice old lady's tongue--"

"I don't care," Sam snapped, hanging up the phone.

"Sam--" Bobby began.

"What?" Sam asked hotly, "I'm not bargaining with them, Bobby. It's a lost game. The best I can do right now is send those demons back to hell." He picked up the PA mike and continued the incantation.

" " "

When Sam finished the exorcism, a very confused and appropriately named emergency room was filled to capacity with people who have been dragged there from various sections of the hospital, with eight corpses on the ground at the main hall.

As promised, the possessed bodies did perish from a miscellany of self-inflicted injury, a very harsh reflection of their spite for Sam Winchester, and a dedication to their missing leader.

Sam, Brennan and Bobby looked around the carnage, as the other staff members numbly tried to piece the hospital back together. The familiar face of Roger Wallis, now more pale than ever, drifted toward them.

"You," he said to Sam, his tone flat and shell-shocked.

"Me," Sam breathed, watching his face. Sam once thought that there was a sense of satisfaction when people started to believe him, stopped thinking he was insane. But now more than ever, he was regretting that other people had to struggle with the evil that he sees everyday.

"So you're not crazy," Roger said, "Or I've turned. Evil things are real. Who'd have known it." He nodded at Brennan, "Doc. Sorry. I couldn't tell you anything. He got Alex, and he knows where I live--"

Brennan just waved away the apology. They were all just trying to survive a ridiculous situation, here.

"I don't know what to say," Roger finished, "I just don't anymore."

"I need to transport my brother," Sam said, looking at Roger earnestly, now, no longer threatening, "I'm thinking more cops and emergency crew will be making their way here, after this."

"I'll get my cab ready," Roger said, after a long moment.

"I'll take you to him," said Brennan.

" " "

_Damn it_, Sam thought as he stepped over the line of salt on Dean's door, _I've seen you dead and rotting, why is this still so hard?_

He stopped at the foot of the bed. If Dean was in that body anywhere, Sam wouldn't have known it. Brennan could have taken him in front of a total stranger and Sam would have believed it.

Dean was pale and still and half-machine by now, on that bed.

_Like Robocop_, he thought, ridiculously, because nothing made sense anyway. A choked sob escaped him, until he remembered he wasn't alone. Until he remembered that he needed to keep up his game face if he wanted these people intimidated enough to help him save his brother. Or inspired enough to think they can win. Whatever works. He cleared his throat.

"It's freezing in this room," Bobby murmured, cutting into the deathly silence.

"The machines," said Sam, "Are they sustainable in a home care setting?"

"It's possible," Brennan said, pausing in thought, "You mentioned moving him."

"I can't keep him here," Sam said, "We're running from feds and demons alike."

Brennan blinked, and then nodded as if he just came to some sort of decision. "I'll help you."

_You have no choice_, Sam was tempted to say, _I have your daughter_.

But he didn't. Volunteers were always more welcome than victims. He let the illusion of choice remain.

"Thanks."

" " "

Roger and Brennan were preparing to move out. Bobby was on the phone with Ellen outside Dean's room. It was the first time Sam was alone with Dean since he held his dead brother's body in someone else's house.

There was always something very unnatural about being around a deathly silent Dean. Not that he felt uncomfortable around silences with his brother, of course not. It's just that...well it was uncharacteristic, for one and... sometimes, Dean descended into silences that weren't easy, companionable, peaceful quiets. They were just loaded soundless-ness. Heavy, stifling. His brother's thoughts were so damn potent they were weighing down the room, the air of the Impala, wherever the hell the two of them were.

This was Dean thinking about his Deal. There was Dean thinking about his brother going dark-side. There was a version of Dean thinking about Dad. There was a quiet Dean thinking about Sam and Stanford. There's Dean thinking about dying and faith healers and beautiful, kind women with not much time left in the world. There's Dean looking at a magazine he's not reading, thinking about a life he did not have...

"I'm so fucking tired, bro," Sam said, under his breath. The tears were coming again. But he was alone, and it was okay to let them come, wasn't it? If there was one perk to being alone, it was that he could cry as hard as he damned wanted to and no one could see or hear him.

To be continued...


	6. Chapter 6

Author:Mirrordance

Title: Home Road

Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.

" " "

Home Road

" " "

6

" " "

Hell

" " "

The visions literally _assaulted_ him, catching him whenever they wanted to. He supposed Sam's had been like this too. One minute he's walking toward the mouth of their icky little cave and the next, he's back in a hospital in the middle of nowhere watching his father die again.

Ruby's face had faded from his sight, and he was in that room again.

_Time of death: 10:41..._

And then the vision would unceremoniously dump him back to hell. The sad thing about it all was that being back in hell was a relief. He _landed_ back in his body, on his knees on the ground, a hand to the amulet around his neck as he struggled to catch his breath.

"You back?" she asked.

He licked his lips, wrenched his eyes closed against the pounding ache in his head, but nodded. "Yeah," he rasped, "Say, there wouldn't be any water around here, would there?"

"No food, no water," she said, "Hunger and thirst, forever. First thing I did when I got out was to eat."

"Fuck," he muttered, peering at her from lidded, weary eyes, "Say... why aren't you getting any?"

"Any what?" she asked.

"Any of the grindhouse classics in your head," Dean replied, "Why's it just me?"

"I told you they'd get easier," she answered, "That they'd show you so much that it would eventually hurt less. Turn you numb and cold. Turn you dark. I've turned long, long ago, so there's no need for them anymore. Admittedly though, even in my first few years here I never got as much shit as you're getting right now. I think I know why. When I came here, I was long-tainted. You on the other hand...you don't belong here, Dean. That's why you literally gotta get dragged by a hellhound. That's why they gotta change you with these visions. They change you, so that they deserve to keep you."

"Keep me?"

"If you become a demon," she replied, "You're hellbound for real. You step back on Earth, and it's not gonna be bye-bye and walking into white light, like your dad did after he walked outta here. If you become like us, Dean, if you let them turn you, this is it. The best you can hope for is walking the Earth in a borrowed meatsuit. No heaven."

"Heaven," Dean snorted, "Right."

Her brows raised. "You don't believe in heaven?"

He shrugged, noncommittally.

"You're so screwed up," Ruby commented, amused, "You don't think you deserve to go, or you don't think there is one?"

"If there is one, no," he said, changing the topic, "How much further is it to this guy we're seeing, anyway?"

"Does it matter?" she snapped.

"You're right, it doesn't," he said, as he kept walking.

" " "

Indiana

" " "

He sat on the back of the ambulance with his brother and the doctor, as Bobby and Roger Wallis took over the front seats.

"Ellen's with Jo and Missouri," Bobby reported to Sam after putting down his phone, "They'll be coming with Alex and the kid to that house of yers."

Sam grunted in semi-acknowledgment. He was busy rifling through Dean's bagged and bloodied shit (the doctor had called it _personal effects_ and that just sounded macabre, like it was owned by some dead guy so Sam stalwartly refused to call it that). It was just an ugly mass of ruined clothes and knick-knacks.

"Something's missing," he muttered, digging in deeper.

_God_, blood stank.

"It's all there," Brennan guaranteed.

"No, no," Sam insisted, pulling his hand out of the bag, reaching out to his brother's neck. The aggressively searching hands turned immediately gentle, as he probed at Dean's collarbone.

"Something's missing."

"Sam, what?" Bobby asked.

"He never took it off," Sam said, quietly, searching the bag again, "He'd be pissed as hell if he woke to find we lost it."

"The necklace," Bobby realized.

"Maybe, maybe it fell at the house," Sam said, "No one would have taken it. The leather was old and wrecked and there was just blood everywhere. Wallis, is this the same ambulance you used?" he started looking under the seats and at the corners.

"I clean it up right after I bring people in," Roger replied, "Sorry, man, I didn't see no necklace or anything."

"He'll be so pissed," Sam sighed, looking up when he felt Bobby watching him from the rearview mirror.

"Take it easy, Sam," the older hunter said, faux mildly, because his eyes were worried about the youngest Winchester's frame of mind, "It'll turn up."

" " "

The sun was high in the sky in mid-morning by the time they settled down in another ironic suburbia.

Ellen and Jo Harvelle stood apart, an irate Missouri between them. The sleepy-looking teenager and the wary EMT stood huddled together, and all five women watched the weary new-arrivals.

Ellen went straight for Sam, the moment he stepped out of the ambulance. She was going to hug him, she really was, up until she saw the grim determination etched on his face, and the very clear and pointed warning that he wasn't going to be having anything like that right about now.

For all of his kid-brother tendencies, no one wore menace quite like the youngest Winchester, oh no... and so she just nodded at him, and let her eyes drift to the stretcher bearing the man-of-the-hour. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of Dean, and she glanced unhappily at her anxiously shifting daughter.

"I'm sorry, Sam," she said in a low voice, "I never even knew about his deal. Don't know what I could have done if I did, but... well..."

"Well you're here now," Sam said, glancing at Jo too, "And Jo. We appreciate the help, Ellen, we really do."

She nodded, as the group began filing into the house.

" " "

They settled Dean down in the family room right off the living and dining rooms. The arrangement of this house – not atypical of most suburban developments - felt too much like the one Dean had died in in the first place that it was making Sam grimace at the unwelcome memories.

The doctor and his daughter were given their own room, and the two EMT's shared another. They were all new to this life, and Sam wondered if they would be getting any real sleep at all, after the things they now knew. But he was in no mood to coddle them. He watched them trudge up those stairs, bodies weary and nerves stretched taut, leaving him and Dean with no one but the remnants of their makeshift family; Ellen and Jo standing loosely side by side, and Bobby and Missouri.

"You should get some rest, Sam," Bobby said, "We've done all we could for now."

"Maybe later," Sam murmured, distractedly turning to Missouri, "Missouri...Is he here at all? Any part at all...?"

"You already know the answer to that, Sam," she told him with kind, lonely, regretful eyes.

He set his jaws and nodded, jerkily.

"You think the four of them are okay up there?" Jo asked, "We won't be having any problems with them calling the cops on us or anything?"

"Brennan came on his own," Bobby said, "The daughter's fool enough to join in if we just asked. Wallis and the girl have seen what they needed to see. I don't even think we could get rid of them if we asked 'em to leave. Can't say as I blame 'em. Nothing makes sense, and the only ones who more or less look like they know what they're doing is us."

It was just one problem off their laundry fucking list, Sam thought miserably, glancing at his brother's still form. Dean's body safe, check. Doctors to take care of him, check. They're willingly helping, a surprise check. Now for the hard part: getting Dean's soul back.

Getting Dean back was at the very top of Sam's list of priorities. Everything else around that was purely incidental. The world was just lucky Lilith had Dean's soul because otherwise, Sam wouldn't give as much crap about trying to stop her.

" " "

Hell

" " "

It was rough terrain, just simply _unforgiving_. Jutting rocks, massive boulders, twisted, leaf-less trees, and just dead, dry soil. The air was hot, and thick with dust and ash. The ground beneath their feet was hot too, jagged and irregular and hard and sharp. One tended to fall a lot, grapple, and bleed.

"Where's everybody?" Dean asked, looking around the arid land.

"We're at the outskirts," Ruby replied, "That hell's gate opening a year ago is still pretty fresh in people's minds here. That's where most would be. Besides, you should be relieved, not complaining."

"Fair enough," Dean grunted, as he walked alongside her. "When you said we had to hide, what exactly are we hiding from?"

"Everybody," she replied, "Lilith and her people, for one, they're sure hunting you down now. Any demon down here that may know you. Or any demon that doesn't know you, for that matter, and are just looking for something to break. Then there are Lilith's enemies. You already know the chain of command's messed up after you wasted Azazel and Sam refused to step up. Lilith's one of the biggest guns, but she's not the only one."

"Is there anyone who isn't looking for me," Dean muttered.

"The aimless and the hopeless," she replied, "Who have no care about leaving here. There's more than you think. Then there are others, like the guy we're looking up."

"So this guy," Dean asked, "This, this Watcher guy. Why does he know so many things?"

"He's been here as long as anyone can remember," she replied, "Think of him as your local old one. There's one everywhere."

"Why the hell would he answer our questions?" Dean asked.

She looked at him sidelong, thoughtful. "He never gives anything freely, so he'll answer our questions if he gets something in return."

"Exactly," Dean pointed out, "We don't have anything to give. No one here has anything to give."

"He always finds something that he can want from you," Ruby said, "There's always something to trade for. I guess you should be scared, but what else can you do?"

" " "

They walked on. Someone could have told him he's been walking for years and Dean would've believed it. He was tired, but his mind was alert. He was thirsty and hungry and deeply, deeply weary. He felt ill. But hell being hell, there was no relief, not in unconsciousness, not in sleep, not in death. You just... went on, like a shell, like a faded version of yourself.

As he walked, he macabrely imagined what kind of demon he would make, after a minor eternity of this shit. Would he be like the vicious, relentless ones, like Lilith and most of the assholes he's come across? Or would he be like one of those shell-people, the mindless ones walking around with their puppet strings cut? He wasn't even sure what was worse.

He could, he supposed, be a bit like Ruby, couldn't he? Black heart, black soul, incidentally decent purpose? Like Blade from _Blade_, you know, who's half-fang or something but was doing good stuff? Or _Hellboy_--

_"You know, you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is….they don't need you. Not like you need them. Sam - he's clearly John's favorite. Even when they fight, it's more concern than he's ever shown you."_

Vision.

_No more John dead on the floor. This was him standing in front of the other-occupied body of his father, pinned by an invisible force against a wall, venomous words that belonged to a dark space in his heart being hurled on his face. Spat out, like simple, trifling bits of acid. He knew his father wouldn't say that. But it was a doubt so long-home in his mind that it didn't matter. The words stung and they went deep, hurting more than the wrenching pain in his gut when unseen hands held and clenched at his insides, until they drew blood through his skin. He screamed. He didn't like screaming. Sam was screaming too. He was being torn apart. He begged. He liked begging less._

_"Dad, please..."_

_He knew how that story was supposed to end. John saying stop, the sudden release, the collapse to the ground. But in this dream, the hands clenched tighter. And he could do nothing but scream louder. And beg harder--_

"Hey, hey."

He jerked aware, back into his _other_ hell. He was on the ground on his back, breathless, eyes and nose running as if he had been sobbing, and Ruby was bent over him. He blinked at her as he gathered his bearings. He realized that her hand was pressed against his hand, folding his fingers around the amulet on his neck. Her eyes caught his realization, and she backed off.

"You have a weird habit," she said, after a moment.

"What?"

"Anytime you fall into one of those things," she said, "Your hand reaches for that thing on your neck."

His hand tightened around the amulet, by sheer reflex.

"What the hell is that?" she asked.

"Gift from Sam," he answered, voice soft enough to come just short of an exhausted whisper.

"It pulls you out, doesn't it?"

He closed his eyes, trying to get his bearings. If it did, he didn't notice until now.

"Hide it," she said.

"Why?"

"There are only a few things you could bring with you down here from up there," she said, "Trinkets usually don't get to come with. It might be important."

Dean did as suggested, frowning in thought as he slipped the necklace to beneath his tattered shirt. Taking a shuddering breath, he heaved himself up and the two of them, again, as if for eternity, just kept walking.

" " "

Indiana

" " "

"You sure got a crack team on your hands, big brother," Sam told Dean softly, with a small, awkward smile on his face.

"Let's see," Sam said, his tone quite insanely conversational. He wondered briefly if he has lost his mind at last, it being that he knew as well as Missouri guaranteed that Dean was nowhere near. But he found the need to speak to his brother as if he was just around the corner. Made him feel like he could get him back more.

"You got a small-town doctor," Sam enumerated, "A thirteen-year-old teeny-bopper, a bartender, a barmaid, a junk man, a psychic, and a college drop-out. _We're_ gonna be getting you back. Imagine that.

"Well stranger things have happened, right?" Sam asked, "Crazy's everyday of our lives, all that? So just hang on, okay? I'm getting you out. For real this time."

Sam turned his head at the sound of indiscreet footsteps that stopped just outside the door. It was Jo, bearing a tray of food and drink. He knew she could be very subtle, but hadn't wanted to startle him.

"Sam?" she asked, "Thought you might be hungry."

He glanced at the food and winced. A light sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of ginger ale. Uncomplicated foods, really, but he lost his appetite long ago and he wasn't sure he was _ever_ gonna get it back.

"Nah, I'm good."

"You're no good to Dean going on like this," she pointed out, "You can't help him half-dead."

He reached for the apple and took a tentative bite, leaving everything else.

"Bobby said to spike the drink," she told him with a small light in her eyes, making a gentle, unobtrusive effort to make him feel marginally better.

"You didn't listen, did you?" he asked, a beat too late, as if he's already forgotten how to find things funny.

Jo shook her head, and let her eyes drift away from him to settle on Dean. "Kinda weird, huh? Last time the three of us were stuck in a room together, he didn't come out so pretty either."

Sam winced. "Listen, Jo--"

"It wasn't you," she told him, quickly, "I know that, Dean knew - knows- that too. He knows that better than you. I was patching him up, and he said he just _knew_ it couldn't have been you, like it was so simple. He believes in you, Sam. I don't know how, or how long it's gonna take you, but I'm a betting gal, and I'd bet my life on you saving him. I'd bet on a Winchester. I have before."

It meant more than he could say, coming from the daughter of the man who had died betting his life on their father. Sam nodded at her gravely, in thanks.

" " "

Hell

" " "

"Should I have listened to you?" Dean asked, voice hoarse and pensive as they walked side by side, "When you were telling Sam what he could do?"

Ruby threw him an odd look, but kept walking. It might have taken her a day to answer, maybe longer. "Yes. But to be fair, I wouldn't have trusted me either, if it was the other way around. I'm a demon, Dean. It makes sense not to trust me, I get that. I'm hardly in a position to be offended."

"Ain't that a bitch," Dean murmured, "And here I am, working with you anyway, when I could've saved myself the hell-trip." He bit his lip in thought, "I'm trying to figure out... how I'd feel about all this if it ends with you screwing me over."

"It wouldn't be the first time you worked with someone who fucked you in the ass," Ruby pointed out, "Bela Talbot, Gordon Walker... and we all know how they both ended up, huh?"

Dean shrugged, "Yeah so you'd better be nice to me."

"That's too strong a word," she said, "How about settling with just me bringing you whatever I promised, even if I have to be bitchy about it?"

"Fair," he nodded, still looking deep in thought.

"What?" she asked, impatiently.

"Are you gonne screw me over?" he asked back.

"Not today," she sighed, "Though you sure as hell deserve it."

" " "

He fell into another vision.

_It was an odd one, he felt like a parrot perched on his father's shoulder. All he could see of John was the back of his shoulder and the back of his dark head. He viewed things almost as John would see them, but disconcertingly not-quite._

_He sat through his father dealing with yellow-eyes, turning over the Colt. Saying Okay like nothing, you know, Okay? Okay? Who says that?!_

_And then they – he and his father, left John's body crashing to the ground. They just left it, like the two of them were getting sucked away. The hospital and the body on the floor tunneled out to darkness and pain, and then fire. And just like that, they were in hell._

Dean jerked awake, found himself on his back, on the floor. He blinked up at the external, sick-orange-dim skies. His hand was on his amulet again. Ruby was right, it was a weird habit...

_Ruby_?, he found himself wondering where she was, because she wasn't standing over or near him, with those clouded, cold / worried eyes of hers, like she wasn't sure what to make of him.

_Did she leave?_

_Am I alone_?!

"Ruby?" he called out, pushing himself up to his elbows.

He jerked awake again.

_What the hell--_?

This time, her face hovered over his indeed, and those eyes looked at him like he expected them to.

_Vision within a vision_, he realized, after a beat.

_At least they're changing it up a little bit_, he thought, inanely_, Getting a little bit more creative_...

"You back?" she asked.

"Are you?" he murmured, unable to help himself.

"You've lost your mind," she said, flatly.

_I have to agree_.

" " "

They moved again, like it was nothing.

They kept on moving, sporadically and jerkily stopping anytime Dean was assaulted by his nightmares. Sometimes he'd return to himself on his back, other times, on his knees, other times he blinks his eyes closed, sees the visions, opens them back up again, _like it was nothing_, and he just kept walking.

They varied in length, in perspective, in color. He lost count of how many times he had seen his father die. But the memory was just so fresh and accessible, down here. He could practically _taste_ the coffee on the floor.

But Ruby was right; it was getting easier. He knew it, just as much as he hated it. And yet more and more he just dusted himself off and kept walking. Blinked his eyes and kept walking.

It was a creeping, cold, helpless feeling.

_Inexplicably comforting_...

Until they broke out a new reel. No more dying John Winchester on a hospital floor.

When Dean watched his father writhing and screaming in hell, he started screaming too.

He was still screaming when he woke, on his ass on the rough ground, his upper body being braced by a being he had once sworn was his enemy. Ruby had an arm around him to keep him steady, and one hand clamped over his mouth.

"Knock it down a peg, Winchester," he felt her breath against his ear, "Someone's coming."

" " "

Indiana

" " "

Sam watched the playing light gleaming off of the pigsticker as he twisted it in his hands. It was such a simple, elegant weapon, not at all unlike the ancient Colt.

He needed to think. The laptop he put down on the nightstand had its screen frozen, probably overheated or overburdened (likely both). He let it stay that way for awhile, let his mind similarly gather itself. He sat next to his brother's bed, staring at the knife.

He didn't know how long he stayed like that. All he knew was he was aware one moment and the next... Brennan was shuffling quietly around the room, checking on his brother, and Bobby was manning his laptop on the couch.

"Back to sleep, Sam," the older hunter said, not even looking up from the computer, "You haven't been away two hours."

"Maybe later," Sam said, stretching his hands wearily over his head, as he watched the doctor, "Any change?"

"You shouldn't expect any," Brennan told him, "I told you he's 'stable,' but that's because he's technically dead and it can't get any worse."

Sam stared at him disapprovingly. This line of conversation was unwelcome.

"So Lilith's got the gun all this time, right?" Bobby asked, breaking up the tension and looking up from what he was reading, "What I don't get is why the hell isn't she using it to open the Gate yet?"

"What happened to the gate?" Sam asked after a long, quiet moment, "After we closed the door last year?"

"I had some old buddies of mine re-seal the broken iron lines," said Bobby, "And a few hunters would go by there regular-like, every few days just to see no one's trying anything funny. That worked out fine 'til that bitch Bela stole the Colt. Had to have them checking more. No demonic activity whatsoever, nothing like we saw last year."

"With the Colt in her hands," Sam said, thoughtfully, "She could open that gate anytime she wants."

"So what's she waiting for?" Bobby asked, "What's she planning?"

"We need answers," Sam said, rubbing his face, "But none of her damn followers are gonna give us information. Believe me, Dean and I tried, before... before the deal came through. Like that bitch at the hospital said, they're more scared of her than me. I need... I need them to be more scared of me, Bobby."

"What are you thinking, kid?" Bobby asked, glancing at the doctor, before settling troubled eyes back to Sam.

"I don't know," Sam admitted, softly, though of course, he had some idea. The only thing these demons would fear was someone stronger than Lilith. They would fear _Azazel's heir_.

"There's something inside me," Sam said, "Something she's afraid of."

_Something _I'm _afraid of..._

"Maybe it's worth looking into--"

"No," Bobby said, quickly, in Sam's anguished heart, unknowingly echoing Dean, "Just... no--"

"I don't see any other option, Bobby," Sam pointed out.

"This is just... just some distorted version of you selling your soul, Sam," Bobby said, "How's your brother gonna feel when he finds out what it cost you to get him back, huh?"

"I'm gonna go," Brennan muttered, shuffling out of the room, not as if either of the two men inside cared or even noticed.

"Sam," Bobby said, glancing at Dean, "I'm gonna say it 'cos it needs saying. We're all thinking it, somewhere inside you, so are you. Even if you get him back... this body's broken, Sam. You get his soul back and the likelihood is that its just gonna be sleeping inside, right 'til it finally, really dies. You get half a brother back at the cost of your soul. It isn't gonna save him. It's only gonna kill you."

Sam chuckled mirthlessly at Bobby. _God_, he's had this conversation before, hadn't he? _Damn_ Dean's ghost, stifling this room, his will bleeding from the mouths of other people.

"I'm not gonna let him rot in hell, Bobby," Sam said, coldly, "I'm gonna do this. Watch me. Better, work with me. Or else, just get out."

"Sam..." Bobby said, helplessly, "One of the biggest mistakes I ever made in my life, was when I left your brother after you died. I felt like the world was ending. And all he wanted was to get you back. I had to go. He couldn't. I turned my back, and now here we are. And I'm sorry. I know how you feel--"

Sam was gonna snap at him, he really was, except, he couldn't deny him that understanding. No one in their line of work could ever say to the other _You don't know what I'm going through. You've never lost anyone_. They've all lost. They've all paid. It was just his stinking turn today. What he didn't understand was why that roulette always pointed the Winchester's way.

"But this..." Bobby shook his head, "I'm not going anywhere, Sam. Get that in your thick head. I don't know what you're thinking of doing, but anytime I think you're messing around with yourself, or, or with how this war's gonna turn all just 'cos of Dean, you gotta know I'm gonna stop you. I owe your brother that much, god knows he's paid a lot just because I walked away. And because I got rights to."

"I know," Sam said, softly, feeling oddly relieved that there was going to be someone around who can tell him right from wrong, the lines he can and cannot cross. Because right now, to get Dean back, he was ready to burn everything down.

"I'm gonna see how far I can take this," Sam said, nodding decisively, "Right now, I need a demon."

"Summon one?" Bobby asked.

"We usually need them by name," Sam said, "I'll try Ruby but Lilith said she got rid of her. I don't know anyone else, obviously. We can ask a Crossroads Demon but that setup's their turf. We want them on our ground."

"What do you want to do?"

"I've been thinking about it," Sam said, rising from his seat and picking up the laptop in Bobby's hands, "They have an ear out for us, out there. We want them to come to us, right?"

He typed a few keys, and then turned the screen toward Bobby. The older hunter's eyes widened at the sight of the _Ghostfacers_ website.

"Bait."

"Sam..." Bobby hesitated, "They're just a bunch of reckless kids... We dump this on them and it can go all sorts of wrong."

"No one's ever prepared for this kind of life, Bobby," Sam reasoned, "They've willingly shoved their sheltered suburban heads in hunting so they're more prepared for this than anybody. More prepared than you or I ever were when we got into this. Besides, we'll cover them."

To Be Continued...


	7. Chapter 7

Author:Mirrordance

Title: Home Road

Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.

" " "

Home Road

" " "  
7

" " "

Hell

" " "

_"Knock it down a peg, Winchester," he felt her breath against his ear, "Someone's coming."_

Dean caught her eye, and blinked at her twice, signaling that _yes_, he was aware and if she could please take her grubby paws from his face?

She lowered her hands to fists at her sides. Her knuckles were bruised and mercilessly cut, and he wondered briefly about how much her injuries mapped what it took to survive down here.

They crouched behind a boulder, bare fists ready for whatever lay at the other side. He could hear grunts and shuffling, and guttural crackles that bordered brutality and despair. He could hear footsteps and dragging, maybe what, five or six beings pushing someone around. There were no intelligible words, just... just animalistic, incomprehensible sounds.

Was Ruby serious when she said these things were people, once? Because nothing of what he was hearing vaguely indicated that--

"_Please_."

His brows rose, head swiveling toward Ruby's cold, calculating face. The damn demons were dragging around someone who was still vaguely human, all right. The voice was hoarse, not so much broken but _shattered_. It was accented in a way that was irritatingly familiar to him.

"_Please_," it came again, and in the name of god and all that is holy, of all the places in the world and beyond it, did he really have to run into Bela Talbot _here_?

" " "

The World Wide Web

" " "

The video went live a scant hour after Sam Winchester, late in the night, stepped into the FedEx Kinko's where _Ghostfacers_ Team Leaders Ed and Harry were closing shop.

The images were pulled from the surveillance footage. The video was pixelated, soundless and blurry, but there was never any mistaking Sam Winchester. The height, the hair, the overbearing Winchester swagger. He kind of just... walked in the door.

Ed and Harry's backs were to him. Their mouths moved, probably saying something to the effect that the shop was closed. There was no transcript in the website, not yet, the webmasters just excitedly wanted to put the damn video up. Sam's mouth moved too, and the two young men turned, stunned, to face him.

The three of them talked, Ed and Harry's arms and hands moving animatedly. Sam played it cool, smiling tightly, talking easily. He looked like he did before his brother died (earnest, a little awkward), _almost_, except there was something frigid in his eyes, like, like... it was hard to put a finger on it. Like he was a young boy looking at toys, things he owned inarguably. Or... or looking at _tools, _things he could use.

Bobby Singer watched it, troubled, from Sam's laptop. He wasn't the only one watching, no, far from. The forum will be filled with comments in the next few hours. But some will be doing more than just watching and writing.

_Gabe, Massachusetts_, was on his way to have a little 'chat' with the _Ghostfacers_.

" " "

Hell

" " "

The grunting demons, dragging an uncharacteristically pleading and _begging _Bela Talbot with them, began to shuffle further away from Ruby and Dean's hiding place.

Dean craned his neck to look after them, disbelieving his eyes. Indeed, there were four demons dragging around a battered, bleeding, ragged Bela Talbot. He knew that unfortunately dreamy figure and that bitch's voice anywhere.

"This really, _really_ is hell," he murmured, brows rising, almost casually. The situation was vaguely comedic, if your humor slanted toward the pitch black, which his did.

The world of the living hadn't been big enough for the two of them and now they were both in _hell_? _Damn_.

His eyes trailed after them, thoughtfully, with a twinge of... _pity_? Was that what it was?

The last time he spoke with Bela was the last time she had spoken to anybody before getting dragged to hell, he knew that for sure. He had offered her no sympathy, just... a regretful, gruff little lesson, delivered with a massive sense of frustration and self-righteousness. He was pissed as hell at her, fearful of his own time running out, and angry that the likelihood of success just dwindled further because of her intervention.

But hearing her beg, down here... dragged around, battered, bleeding... there was nothing in him that felt a sense of vindication or even instinctive satisfaction. That she got what she deserved. That she got what was coming to her. It wasn't the first time karma swung her way, and it also wasn't the first time he felt the compulsion to--

"Try not to get any ideas," Ruby told him, mildly, reading his eyes.

"What?"

"You're in no position to help anybody, Winchester," she told him, smartly, "She's nothing but a haughty bitch finally paying her dues."

"I'm trying to walk away, believe me," he said, under his breath, not even tearing his eyes from Bela and her tormentors for a moment.

She grabbed his arm to get his attention. "Dean."

"If I don't do this," Dean murmured to himself, "They'd have taken a bit of me already. I'm not doing this for her. I gotta do this for me."

"Do what?" she asked, her eyes widening.

He threw her a rakish grin.

Just before vaulting himself over the boulder and diving headfirst into the fray.

" " "

_Ghostfacers_ HQ

Garage, Zeddmore Residence

" " "

The lights overhead blinked, making Ed and Maggie Zeddmore and their friends Harry and Spruce look up.

As always, Spruce had his camera perched at the ready. As always, Harry had a deathgrip on Maggie's hand. As always, the two group leaders glanced at each other uncertainly, wordlessly wondering if they just got (_again_) in way over their heads.

"Sam said we should be fine, right?" Maggie murmured, to Ed's even less subtle shushing.

"We're not supposed to mention his name," Ed snapped at her.

The lights flickered again, and then settled.

"Maybe that's just the wind," Harry said.

"When is it ever just the wind," Spruce muttered.

The group fell into unsettled silence.

The doorbell rang, making them jump.

"Should we get that?" Harry asked, "I mean demons wouldn't ring the bell, right?"

"Did anybody order pizza?" the man outside bellowed.

"Try next door!" Ed bellowed back.

"I don't think so."

The garage door jerked, and creaked, and began to lift open.

" " "

Hell

" " "

These demons were easy pickings.

They were the mindless, lost types, nothing at all strategic about their combat. It was like battling with Romero's _Dead_, just a lot of flailing limbs and growling. It would have been tricky battling a lot of them, but a handful wasn't so bad.

That, and when he finally stood tall, huffing and victorious, Ruby was standing behind him with bloodied hands fisted too. The demons around them were growling and crawling on the ground, temporarily downed.

"They'll be up soon," Ruby told him, "You can't kill anything down here, you can just push 'em back for a little bit. We have to get out of here."

Dean nodded, strode for Bela seated on the ground, who was staring at him, her clear eyes wide and shimmering, jewel-like.

"This is a vision," she croaked.

"No," he corrected her, "This is my _nightmare_. But it is nice to think you dream about me sometimes."

Her eyes flared, as if the antagonism was giving her renewed strength. He knew the feeling. Having a sworn enemy around tended to make one put up a nice little game face.

"You're real," she concluded, her voice becoming just a little bit stronger, just as his had been when he first woke to find Ruby with him, "No one can toss cheap lines like Dean Winchester."

"That's the spirit," he told her, nodding at the growling demons, "Only you can find friends in hell."

"Likewise," she snapped, glancing at Ruby, who just rolled back her eyes.

"Wow," Dean said, uneasily, looking from her to Ruby and back, "I heard all women are evil but this is just ridiculous."

" " "

_Ghostfacers_ HQ

Garage, Zeddmore Residence

" " "

Ed and Harry pushed their ways forward and stretched their arms open protectively before Spruce and Maggie (making sure not to obstruct the camera's view), as the disturbingly _normal-_looking teenager stepped inside the garage.

"_Ghostfacers_," he greeted them with a leer, "I'm Gabe from Massachusetts. I'm a _big_ fan. I think there's something you can do for me."

He stepped forward. The four stepped back, and then once more for good measure.

"You really won't be getting very far, you know," the demon told them.

"Neither are you," Sam Winchester said, stepping forward from the door leading to the main house alongside Bobby Singer, prompting Harry to impressed-ly murmur, "Oh, good line...," as the garage door fell close with a loud clang.

Sam walked toward the demon, smiling a little bit, as he let his eyes drift to the Devil's Trap scrawled on the roof.

_Remember what I taught you_, Dean had said...

The demon growled, and stepped toward him, only to be halted by an invisible force. Sam clicked his tongue at the demon, shaking his head slightly. The demon's eyes darked to depth-less black.

"I think there's something _you_ can do for _me_," Sam told him, coolly.

"You've done this dance with others before," the demon said, "They did not break and I will not. Lilith will have you soon, and I answer only to her."

Sam shrugged, "She may or may not-- back off, Spruce," he cut himself off, as he saw the cameraman breaking slightly into the lines of the trap from the corner of his eye. _God_, he hated babysitting.

"She may or may not," Sam said, smoothly returning back to his train of thought, "But I'm the one you have to worry about right now."

"You're nothing."

"I'm the nothing your leader is hiding from," Sam snapped, circling the demon and saying the beginnings of an exorcism just beneath his breath. It was almost musical and casual, how he could shell out that kind of threat. The demon shuddered, and trembled.

"I'm the nothing she is afraid of," Sam said, pausing a breath from the demon's nose, just at the outskirts of the barriers of the Trap, "Tell me... if she is running scared from me, what can I do to little shit like you?"

He began the ritual again, slightly louder this time. The demon's head was twisting this way and that, until he paused.

"What do you want?" the demon gasped.

"You're here alone," Sam said, "But not for long. A scout, I bet, to make sure she can come finish the job later. Am I correct?"

The demon thought long, and hard, about answering.

Sam picked up the flask of holy water from his pocket and started fiddling with the cap, looking at the demon with a glint in his eye.

The demon opened his mouth to answer, and Sam splashed water on him then, cruelly, catching his mouth, making him curse and choke and sputter.

"You should be more afraid of me," Sam told him, "I can rule this place. I can hurt people. I can tear everyone apart until I get what I want--"

"I was gonna fucking answer--!"

"You were gonna fucking lie," Sam shouted at him, before taking a deep, shaky breath.

"I'm not the only one lying," the demon said, leering at him.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"_You're_ lying," the demon pointed out, "At least you think you are. You can rule this world? You can hurt people? Tear everyone apart? You think you're playing me, but let me tell you, you really, really _can_. And you probably will."

Sam's expression darkened. And he backhanded the leering face, making the _Ghostfacers_ and even Bobby jump, surprised.

"Sam," Bobby whispered, urgently, and the younger Winchester knew what he was thinking, what he was going to say. There was a _person_ in there...

_I know_, Sam glanced at Bobby, _Not now..._

"I guess you really should be scared then," Sam said to the demon, simply, "Answer this, then, buddy, answer this. What do you want?"

"What?"

"What. do. you. want," Sam repeated, condescending.

"I want," the demon gasped, "I want to not hurt. We can't want anything more than that."

No salvation, no relief, no heaven, no, not for a demon. He was right, there was nothing else left to ask for, nothing else attainable, at any rate. But simpler freedom from pain and torture... that was all.

"Tell you what," Sam said, "You're from hell, right? You must have done a host of really bad things. Because it was fun, maybe. Because it was easy. Because it got you off. Whatever. Either way, you ended up down there 'cos you couldn't think of anything but yourself. Now me... I'm just asking you to be _exactly_ what you are. A selfish little mercenary. And right now, your way toward not getting hurt – getting what you want – is to _not_ piss me off.

"So," Sam said, "Is anyone coming after you? Are you alone?"

Silence, broken by screaming and more head turning as he got a splash of holy water in his face for taking too damn long.

"I'm alone!" the demon wailed, before gathering his breath, "I'm alone."

"Good start," Sam said smartly, "Why?"

"She's looking for you, yeah sure," the demon continued, "But you're hiding well. I'm the only one who thought to look at the computers. It's not the usual way. I had to make sure I was right first. She hates mistakes."

"Where is she?" Sam asked.

"She's hiding too, you're right," the demon said, "I don't know."

Sam looked at him in a long, measuring way, and apparently decided he was telling the truth as he moved to his other questions.

"Does anyone else know you're here?"

"No," the demon replied, "No one."

"Where is Lilith keeping my brother's soul?"

"She's not," the demon said, "At least... not anymore from what I've been hearing."

"What the hell do you mean?"

"She kept him separate from everybody," the demon replied, "Safe-like, he's her only card against you. 'Sides, we all know your daddy managed to escape after Azazel threw him in with the riffraff and he just might have the balls to too. She was being careful."

"Then what?" Sam asked, his mouth dry.

"He up and vanished," the demon answered, looking at Sam nervously. He turned more intimidating when he got desperate, "Vanished with that Ruby chick. Thorn on our fucking side..."

"Where the hell could he have gone?"

"Funny you should say that," the demon replied, "The only way to go is down. Down to the Pit. _Hell _for real, out of Lilith's safehouse."

"_Damn it_," Sam muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. Even from beyond the grave his brother was giving him a headache...

His stupid idiot brother vanished into hell to keep from being used as a card against him. _Great_. Just _great_.

_I was the one doing the rescuing here_, he thought, petulantly, _Not the other fucking way around_.

"Her agents are looking for him," the demon said, "But it's a big place, hell. I mean someone's bound to find him, sooner or later. Lilith's not the only one looking. Everyone wants their hands on Sam Winchester's brother."

_Damn it, Dean_...

He tried to wrap his mind around the terrifying idea of that. He turned to another major concern, for now. How could he find Dean if the demon who enslaved him couldn't?

"We know she has the Colt," Sam said, "Why isn't she using it to open the Gate?"

"There are..." the demon hesitated, "There are others. Others like her. She opens that gate and there's no guarantee everything that comes out will follow her. She won't open it, not until she's sure everyone coming out is gonna be on her side."

"What's she doing to achieve that?"

"Well she's gotta kill you first," the demon pointed out.

"And?"

"And she's thinking up a way to kill the other leaders below," the demon replied, "But you can't kill anyone down there, at least, as far as we know. Everyone down there is _already_ dead. And human weapons, like the Colt which can kill souls, can't cross from here to hell. The only way a demon can be killed is to be lured out here and shot with the Colt."

" " "

Hell

" " "

"Okay, uh, reunion's over," Dean said, chuckling a little bit at their situation, "I had a blast but, oh, would you look at the time."

Ruby nodded urgently, "We gotta go."

"Go where?" Bela asked. There was a quiet alarm in her eyes, something Dean wasn't all that unfamiliar with, when he thought Ruby was leaving him.

_It takes one to know one_, she had once told him, right?

"What's it to you, sister?" Ruby snapped at her.

"You're getting out of here, aren't you?" Bela asked, "You've found a way—"

"What makes you think that?" Dean asked, "Can't our short history together be enough of a reason for me to want to just get away from you?"

"You can't just leave me here," she told him, quite seriously, the change dramatic in her eyes. The rare honesty was... so heavily uncharacteristic that it was devastating. Her time in hell had unmasked her. "You helped me, just now, you helped me. You have to--"

"He doesn't have to do anything," Ruby snapped.

"I'm not talking to you," Bela snapped back, turning to Dean imploringly, "You knew it was me, and yet you helped. I've fucked you over, I know, I get it, and yet you still found something in you that would help me. You've never done things halfway, Dean--"

"Oh I don't know about that... there was this chick in Texas and--" he began, not wanting to see the naked need in her eye, not wanting to have to feel pity or worse, _responsibility_ to help her. He was just scrambling to survive, for crying out loud. Ruby was right. He wasn't in any position to be rescuing anybody.

"Help me," she begged, "Take me with you."

"She'll only slow us down, Dean," Ruby told him, "You know I'm right. And you can't trust her, you never have."

"And what would you know about that?" Bela asked her.

"I know a lot about a lot of things," Ruby told her, "Shed the frill, Dean. Besides, you really want this devil bitch back out on Earth? You'll be doing a good deed leaving her here. Let's go."

"If you go, I'll follow," Bela vowed, her expression darkening, "You'd have to hit me and hurt me 'til I can't walk and can't move, I swear to--"

"I can arrange that," Ruby said, eyes glinting.

"Dean," Bela said, "Please."

She had said that to the demons torturing and dragging her, he remembered. And now she was saying it to _him_. He wasn't one of them yet, no, and though he had a _massive_ feeling he was going to regret this (which was always the case between them), he knew he was going to regret beating her up or letting Ruby do it just to keep her off their tails so much more.

"I can't trust you," he said, uneasily, wondering if her perceptive eyes could already see the decision in his, "Hand me a bone, here. If you're gonna be on my back, I gotta know you ain't holding a knife. You killed your parents, for god's sakes."

She stared at him for a long moment, then averted her eyes. She gulped, as if weighing if it would be much more bearable to stay here with her pride intact than to give him this much. Need won.

"I was just a child," she said, voice barely above a whisper, "He would come into my room and close the door behind him. She would close her eyes and pretend not to know a thing. I didn't... I didn't seek the deal. I was alone, in the swings, and the demon asked, and I just couldn't say no."

Dean's brows raised.

_Everyone has a story after all_...

"I'm not sorry," she said, her voice shaking, "They deserved it. I'm not sorry. I'm only sorry I'm here."

Dean knew what that felt like too. There was no part of him that regretted making the deal to bring Sam back. He was only sorry he had to pay, but hell was nothing, hell was nothing compared to living while Sam was dead.

He glanced at Ruby, and found himself wondering what her story was.

"What is this, Oprah?" she snapped at him, reading his eyes, "Let's just _go_. And make sure that bitch stays out of my way."

"It takes one to know one," Bela told her, primly.

Dean watched, as the two women stared at each other.

If he hadn't been sure he was in hell, he sure as hell was now. He had a feeling, however, that this brand of punishment had little to do with the deal to save Sam. This part of the punishment was all his, for all his little misdeeds with women.

"Just kill me now," he muttered under his breath as they – a miserable three now – started walking again.

" " "

_Ghostfacers_ HQ

Garage, Zeddmore Residence

" " "

"So is that it?" the demon asked.

Sam's eyes narrowed at it in thought. "Is that the most you can tell me?"

"Yes," the demon asked, eyes shifting nervously, "You promised me... no more pain."

"No one knows where Dean is, huh?" Sam murmured, "I guess that's it, then."

"What does that mean?"

"Bobby," Sam said, "Anything else you wanna know?"

"Are you gonna let me go?" the demon asked, urgently, beginning to sense he was getting screwed over.

"No," Bobby said.

"You said no more pain!" the demon screamed, seeing Sam's lethal eyes.

_Remember what I taught you_, Dean had said.

"I lied," Sam said, simply, as he started the exorcism ritual over, and saw it through right to the demon's screaming, writhing, end.

" " "

The host body didn't make it.

_Gabe, Massachusetts_ was dead. When the demon possessed his body, he was ridden long and hard and from what Sam could see, the teenager died of dehydration and exhaustion. There wasn't a mark on him, he just looked quite plainly dead.

"Call 911," Sam said to the _Ghostfacers_, "Tell them he knocked on your door, asked for help, said he was abducted and escaped, shortly before he collapsed and died."

A stunned Ed nodded and complied. The moment he put down the phone after giving the operator his name and address, Sam nodded at the camera still running in Spruce's hands.

"I'd delete that if I were you," Sam told him.

"Why?" Spruce asked.

"We just got the footage of the century!" Harry added, "_Again_. And for good this time. We won't let you mess around with it."

"I won't," Sam said, as he began to gather his things, "But you will. That footage shows you saw this guy alive, and that you lied to the cops. Kidnapping and conspiracy to murder. If you know what's good for you, delete it."

He and Bobby walked toward the doors, hearing the muffled curses of the once-again outsmarted _Ghostfacers_. For the first time in days, he smiled a little, remembering the time he and Dean last walked away from them. But it didn't last long. It couldn't, not alongside any memory of his brother.

_Dean_... _where are you, bro?_

He stepped into the driver's side of the Impala, and just sat there for a long moment, feeling Bobby's eyes on him.

"I'm," he hesitated, "I'm scared, Bobby."

The old man just watched his face, let him gather his thoughts, find the guts to voice them.

"I'm scared," Sam said, "That the demons are scared of me."

He started the ignition, letting the Impala's hum drown out the consequent silence. And then he reached over and turned on the radio. He wasn't even sure what song came on, or who sang it. But it drowned out the silence.

In afterthought, he painfully realized that he must have picked up the impulse from his brother.

To be continued...


	8. Chapter 8

Author:Mirrordance

Title: Home Road

Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.

" " "

Home Road

" " "

8

" " "

Hell

" " "

The Watcher's lair was a cross between a hole and a cave, warmly lit by candles (_where the hell did he get them_), almost homey, the space lined by wall after wall of knickknacks. The main hall at the mouth of the cave was surrounded by by-ways and corridors stretching and turning out to a seeming infinity, also lined by a miscellany of things, like a labyrinth full of people's weird crap. The man himself was surprisingly civil-looking in a misplaced, slightly grimy, dated day-suit. He even had glasses and crooked teeth. Dean thought he looked like a cartoon character, living in a cartoon cave.

"Ruby," the Watcher had greeted the ex-witch, as he led them inside.

"Been here before, I guess?" Dean murmured.

"A few times," she admitted in a low voice, before introducing Dean to the Watcher, surprisingly by his real name. Dean's brows rose in surprise, and the Watcher caught his expression.

"If there are things you want to know," the Watcher told him, "And the situation is a give-and-take, it's the first thing you have to give, isn't it? The truth?"

"Honesty's overrated," Dean said, with a crooked smile.

The Watcher looked at Ruby expectantly, to introduce Bela. She stood her ground and didn't, making Dean roll back his eyes. Yeah, a couple miles with two evil bitches was not fun.

"Bela Talbot," Bela introduced herself.

"Fresh meat," the Watcher said, "With a seasoned guide. One of the most seasoned, if I may say so. If Ruby takes you into her fold, I am intrigued."

"Intrigued enough to answer a few questions?" Dean asked.

The Watcher shrugged, as he walked around Dean, his thick glasses making his eyes look caricature-like as he devoured the sight of him.

"She must have told you there's always a price," the Watcher murmured.

"Want one of my frills?" Dean joked, a little nervously, referring to the two women beside him. The Watcher ignored the quip, and then raised up his hand, gently tapping at the slight bulk of the amulet beneath Dean's shirt.

"_This _one," he said, in a breathless, triumphant whisper, "I will answer all of your questions, if you give me this."

" " "

Indiana

" " "

Sam stood before his brother's failing body with a scowl that was becoming to get tattooed on his face. He had aged, Missouri reflected, not a doubt in her mind. Aged down to ancient. Anger and frustration and increasing desperation radiated from him in powerful waves, engulfing the room. He scowled at Dean, and though she knew he knew she had entered the room, he did not bother looking up.

There was a battle raging within the boy, always has been. When he was younger, it was between the life he had and the life he wanted. Family or self. Desire or responsibility. Lately it's holding on or letting go. Of Dean. Of himself. Of his perceived destiny. Good or evil... He was gonna tear himself right down the middle.

Missouri watched him for a long moment, waiting to be acknowledged. He blinked a few times, sighed, and when he closed his eyes and shook his head, it was like he brought himself back to being someone more earnest, and more familiar to her.

"He, uh," Sam hesitated, "He doesn't believe in God."

She frowned at him in thought, stepped forward to stand beside him. His palm was over his brother's, as if willing him strength.

"You know what that means?" he asked, turning to face her, "He's down there, thinking nothing's gonna save him. Nothing but me. Even after he said not to, he'll think it, I know he will."

"Do _you_ believe in God?" she asked him.

He shrugged. It was the equivalent of _Sometimes_, or _I want to_, or possibly even _I used to_.

"Why should I?" Sam asked, quietly, "Is heaven or hell just geography? I mean, a gate opens and you're out, right, good or bad deeds be damned? Is it just a place you get stuck in? I know for sure even good people end up down there. And if good people get stuck in hell, and bad people can still walk the Earth - god knows people are a lot like demons sometimes - is good and evil just politics? Whoever wins sets the definitions? 'Cos if that's all this is, I don't know what the hell we all are doing here. Trying to save people, trying to get rid of bad things... What's the use? But I don't know what I'm talking about. All this is bullshit. And now my brother's d-missing."

"Bobby told me," Missouri said, "About his escape."

"Escape," Sam scoffed, "That's a nice way of putting it. Only Dean would escape to hell. He can be such an ass."

"Sam," Missouri said, "I don't know why bad things happen to good people, or the converse. You were a law student, you must know the philosophical problem of evil... one of the greatest arguments against the existence of a god, is the presence of evil, right? I don't know if there's a God. I don't even know what I believe. But it seems to me, that anytime there's something bad out there, there's something good that fights it. Every spell, every curse, every monster, every demon. Black and white. Anytime something rough happened to you, your brother was there, wasn't he? Now he's down there but he's still got you. And you've got all of us. It's all about hope. If you want to stretch it a little bit, call it faith. Maybe we're wrong and all of this is for nothing. But the payoff, if we're right, will be brilliant and blinding, and between those two things... the sensible gamble should be obvious for a smart guy like you."

"But where do I go now," Sam asked, "What do I do? I might have a chance at saving him by opening the gate, but that would let everyone else out. Besides, to begin with, the Colt - which is the only key - is with Lilith whom I can't find. I interrogated a demon who knew nothing. Even if I find Lilith, she doesn't know where Dean is either and... it's just a dozen dead ends, right now."

"Your mind is tired," she told him, soothingly, "I know you want him removed from there as soon as you can, but you have to understand, Sam, sometimes, you sleeping or eating or just resting isn't going to take away from your saving him, but will help you do so."

"It crossed my mind," Sam conceded, rubbing his eyes, "But I can't seem to stop..."

"Go to the doctor," Missouri advised, "He should be able to give you something. Once you rest, Sam, the answers just might appear out of nowhere."

" " "

Hell

" " "

"This old thing?" Dean asked, with a too-transparent, nervous chuckle, "Wouldn't know what you'd want with a little toy like this one, old man."

"Not a toy," the Watcher breathed, tracing the leather strap, as if to draw out the amulet from underneath Dean's shirt. Dean swatted his hand away, and stepped back.

"Dude, personal space!"

The Watcher narrowed his eyes in irritation, and turned toward a nervous Ruby. "You must have explained to him how this works."

"Yes," Ruby replied, "But you have never asked for anything that wasn't precious to those they belonged to. You should not be surprised by defiance at this point."

The Watcher just shrugged, and turned expectantly to Dean. "Decide. I do not have all day."

Dean looked at the Watcher, and touched the necklace reverently.

He didn't have very many things. He didn't have very many people. He lost his mother as a child, lost his brother to the world, lost his father to this war. Women came and went. The only things constant in his life was the Impala which had been a gift from his father, and the amulet which had been a gift from Sam. Both things were inextricably a part of him by now, and vice versa.

The Impala's seat had conformed to his body, he had left marks of his fingers on the wheel. He knew its rumbles and tumbles and could safely say that between maintenance and repairs over the last years, he had touched every single part of her.

The amulet gave his neck a quirky tan line. It was the one thing he would not remove not for anything in the world. The frayed leather carried his scent. The leather bore fine bloodstains he couldn't remove. The face of the charm had been held by the hands of his brother, back when he was still innocent of the nastier sides of the world.

He couldn't bring the Impala to hell – a misfortune, since he had a feeling only she could bear him away from there – but the amulet was just compact enough to have almost seemed a part of his body. He didn't know how or why it went with him, but this was his key to a life beyond hell, that was becoming plain enough. He didn't know if it's because the amulet really had a supernatural power all this time after all – which he doubted, considering his constant misfortune – or if it was just his brother's hands, touching it, and the damn thing seeing him through life. Either way, he wasn't just going to hand it to some funny looking guy.

_Then again..._

The amulet was important because it was his link to life beyond hell. Maybe it was his ticket out too. Or... the amulet was important because it was from Sam. If he can get out, and keep Sam from harming himself or others, then to give it to this guy served the same importance, instead of violating it.

"Dean?" Ruby called, jerking her head toward the mouth of the cave, "A word."

Dean bit his lip and nodded, following after her. The Watcher and Bela watched them walk off.

"I told you having that on you pulls you back," she said, in a measured tone.

"Yeah, so?" Dean asked, tentatively.

"You give it to him and I can promise you," she said, "Soon you'll find it harder and harder to come back. You'll stop reaching for it. You'll stop calling for help. You'll stop calling his name. You'll lose yourself faster--"

"You've been to see the Watcher several times," Dean said, cutting her off, his tone thoughtful.

"Are you listening to me?" she snapped, grabbing his arm, insistent, "You give that to him and--"

"I'm listening," he snapped back, tempted to jerk off his arm except he knew their proximity would also work to his advantage, "What did you ask him and what did you give up for it?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" she asked, letting his arm go and backing off, predictably.

"I want to know if he's worth it," he said.

"Worth selling your sanity, your thinking, yourself?" she asked.

"If his answers can help me get out of here faster, then we have nothing to fear about me turning, right?" Dean pointed out, "But I need to know how good he is."

Ruby set her jaws, before muttering, "I asked him who I should side with in this war. He said your brother."

Dean's brows rose. "Is it because Sam's gonna win or is it because Sam's gonna do the right thing?"

"Good question," she conceded, sounding surprised, "I'm a demon, I didn't – don't – care about the latter. I just assumed it was because he was gonna win. Damn."

"What did you give up?" he asked.

"My face."

"What?"

"All memory of my face," she said, "I used to be beautiful, everyone said. I don't know anymore. You think I just get kicks out of walking around in someone else's form? I don't remember. He asked for it. I was at a point where I needed answers."

"How's that working for you so far?" he asked her, almost wryly, "Picking our team?"

"It sucks," she confessed, making him chuckle, wearily.

"What about the other times you came to him?" he asked, "What did you pay, what did you ask, and was his answer worth it?"

"What does it matter," she sighed, "You've already made up your mind."

He looked back at the interior of the cave. He let each of his fingers stray over the most intricate details of the amulet, as if memorizing every line, even as he already knew them by heart.

_This is it, buddy._

_For Sam._

Then, like pulling out a band-aid, he gripped it in a tight fist and pulled it from his neck. He hoped the leather had left marks, anything from a bruise to a welt or even just streaks of red on his neck, anything at all. They would be okay reminders for a little while, after he gives this away.

" " "

The Watcher vanished for a few moments with his new prize, scurrying to hide it somewhere in his labyrinthine home. He had Dean, Bela and Ruby sit on a round table and wait for him.

"You'd think he was going to serve us tea," Bela murmured, watching Dean's face. His eyes looked unbearably regretful already. "It's just a little trinket, Dean."

He lifted his eyes to look at her, and he realized he was going to be getting a very objective, professional appraisal from the great thief / procurer of rare occult items.

"I've thought about stealing it," she confessed, "I looked it up in all the books I could find, asked spirits about it. No one knew a thing. It's just an unknown pop-artist's agglomeration of traditional ritual mask art and symbolism to create something that looks authentic. The art influence even crosses continents– you can see elements from traditional Native American, African, even Thai mask art and god-symbols, just to name a few. It was mass-produced in the 80's. You can even find a couple on e-bay."

"Way to crap on the fairy dust, Talbot," Ruby said, in mocking awe.

"All I'm saying is," Bela said, "The only reason he wanted to take it was the value you put on it. And the value you put on things can be transferred elsewhere. So Mr. Tragedy here need not look so glum."

"Thanks," Dean told her sarcastically, "You're a real pal. That's why I brought you along, Bela. Always around to show me the light. Oh no wait. That's hellfire. I brought you along, 'cos if I can get through you I can probably live past the worst of it all. You know what they say, if you're going through hell, keep going."

"Quoting Churchill, Dean?" Bela asked, "I'm impressed."

"I saw it on a bumper sticker," he said, impatiently, as the Watcher returned and took the last seat.

"So, Mr. Winchester. What do you want to know?"

" " "

"How many questions do I get?" Dean asked.

"Wouldn't it have been a shame if I answered just one?" the Watcher said, with an acid grin, "You can have as much as I can answer, and am interested in, to give to you."

"How the hell can I get out of here?"

The Watcher laughed at him, condescendingly.

"Oh Mr. Winchester," the Watcher said, after calming down, "To the guttural. I appreciate that. But the answers will be plain and likely already known to you. Out a devil's gate or summoned as a Crossroads Demon or any other cursed demon linked to a dark object or spell aboveground."

"Out _a_ devil's gate," Dean pointed out, "Not _the_ devil's gate, you said. So there's more than one?"

"No," the Watcher replied, "Not that even I know of, at the very least. But there _can_ be others."

"How?" asked Dean, "I mean, can anybody do that? How did the Colt one happen? Was it always there? Did someone make it?"

"This is a question I have never been given before," the Watcher said, amused, "Century after century of the same questions, Mr. Winchester, and you will recognize the value of perception an originality."

"Thanks," Dean said, dryly.

"Shaking the devil's hand is an old story, isn't it?" the Watcher asked, "People making deals has been going on as far back as anyone can remember. Now, pulling people out of deals is harder business, but everyone's been known to try a thing or two. Or three. But no one's ever had the balls of this guy before."

"What guy?" Dean asked, "Colt?"

"No," the Watcher replied, "One of the men who worked for him. He was a foreigner, with some background on old magic. His wife had sold her soul. He cut a hole in the Earth, made a bridge into hell and pulled her out."

"He _made_ the gate?" Dean asked, incredulously, "Some lonely foreigner _made_ a bridge between Earth and Hell? Come on."

"He was part-demon," the Watcher answered, "All he needed was some of his blood, the right intent, and the right spell. A hell's gate is like a gaping scar on the land. There is no sealing it, it will be there forever. But it can be covered, which he finally had the courage to come up to Colt and ask him to do – he needed the materials, which were expensive to say the least, and he needed the space, which Colt owned. Colt couldn't believe it, until he went to the site and saw for himself, thirteen of the wiliest, worst demons walking out of the hole. It's how they got out in the first place; they were the smartest and the best."

"Thirteen," Dean murmured, "That's why the Colt..."

"Special gun with special bullets," the Watcher said, "Made under the light of Halley's comet. One for each of the demons that had escaped. Colt gave the gun to the man who had unwittingly let them out, to give him a chance to atone for his mistake. Think of him as the first hunter, armed with thirteen bullets for the thirteen worst demons that have ever walked the Earth."

"He didn't finish the job," Dean said, "When we got the gun, there were five bullets left."

"The eight bullets had gone where they were supposed to go," the Watcher replied, "Eight demons dead. The rest were exorcised, had the chance to shuttle back and forth between hell and Earth every now and then over the centuries. But you're right, there were five bullets left and the moment that gun and those bullets landed on you Winchesters, the tally was broken.

"Of the five left," the Watcher continued, "Your father killed a vampire, a being of little consequence to us. That is one bullet wasted. Your brother used two more trying to kill Azazel: one that ended up missing him in Salvation, and one into your father's leg. That makes three. You yourself wasted one bullet on Azazel's son. That makes four. The last one made its long way into Azazel's heart at last. Theoretically, four wasted bullets means four really terrible demons still roaming around, doesn't it?"

"Oh please, we didn't know," Dean muttered, "Someone should be writing these damn things down..."

"Of the four left," the Watcher said, "The first one, as you may have guessed, is Lilith. The second one is dead; she was that witch you stabbed. If you had used one of the original bullets on her, she would not have been able to use her powers on it."

"Two more," Dean pointed out.

"The last two of the thirteen demons are here in hell," replied the Watcher, "Husband and wife, Lucian and Dolores."

"Oh a love story," Dean said, sarcastically, "That's nice."

The Watcher shrugged. "Anything else?"

"So there is really no way out of here for me," Dean said flatly, "Short of that gate opening or a part-demon from upstairs making another one."

"That's correct," the Watcher said, staring at Dean's face knowingly, "You want to ask me if your brother is part-demon."

Dean blinked once, before letting his mask fall back in place, "Oh I already know he is, you should see him behind the wheel of my car when he's being careless."

The Watcher said nothing, just smiled tightly, waiting to be asked. _Wanting_ to be asked. But it wasn't a question Dean wanted to say aloud, it felt like a betrayal, to have to doubt...

_Is my brother part-demon?_

_Did you tell Ruby to side with him because he's gonna win, or is it because he's gonna do the right thing...?_

So he didn't.

"What makes the thirteen bullets so special?" he asked instead, "What did Colt do to them?"

"The bullets were special because they were made in the light of Halley's comet," The Watcher explained, "Comets were once regarded as signs of death and tragedy. Some say it's because they resembled weeping, long-haired women. Others have said they looked like swords, wielded by gods, symbolizing the beginning of a war. In 1835, that's exactly what happened. When Colt made the bullets, it was the first, true effort a mortal man made against demons, and the gods struck the sky and allowed it, the beginning of a battle between good and evil."

"How about the knife?" Dean asked.

"Colt worked on a gun that night," the Watcher said, "Your part-demon hunter worked on a knife. Now that the bullets are gone, nothing can kill the demons but that knife. And no one can make new bullets until the next Halley sighting, in 2061."

"How do you know all this?" Dean asked, scratching his neck uneasily.

"I am just what I am," the Watcher sighed, "There are some questions I cannot answer. It is like asking me how we breathe, and live. Or why you are you and I am me and these women are who they are. And you have just turned into a bore."

"So what?" Dean asked, "Q&A over?"

"You're not so bad," the Watcher said, looking at Ruby pointedly, "At least you didn't ask me about the good/evil god questions. I have inclination left for just one more query from you, and nothing more. I will let you ask me about that thing you want to know about your brother."

_Is my brother part-demon?_

_Did you tell Ruby to side with him because he's gonna win, or is it because he's gonna do the right thing...?_

_But what does it matter_?, Dean asked himself, _Sam's Sam, no matter what he's made of. My idiot, overgrown brother. And 'cos of that, he'll do the right thing. He'll always do the right thing. Even if we don't win._

"Nah," Dean said, "I'm good."

" " "

Indiana

" " "

Sam blinked himself awake, feeling as if he had lost all sense of time. He fell asleep on the couch in Dean's room with the help of some handy sleeping pills courtesy of the good doctor. He felt stuffy and ill, worse, not better.

_What a waste of time_, he thought, closing his eyes again and pinching the bridge of his nose.

God, was this feeling familiar, or what? He had lived a few months with Dean dead... nasty trick, that. Except the only trick about it was that Dean was given back to him. If he hadn't been given back, it was just plain sick reality. Because the pain had been real. The conversations were real, in the sense that everything Dean had said and done in the tricketer's conjured-up world was exactly what Dean would have done and said in that situation. He remembered how, early in his nightmarish _Groundhog Day_ series, he told Dean he had a weird dream.

_Clowns or midgets..._?

And he had found it assuringly funny until, a hundred deaths and months of loneliness and nothingness later, Sam had said the same, wistful thing and the restored Dean had replied the same thing too.

It hadn't been a trick, Dean was real, his loss was real. It only became a trick when Dean was given back. Because a 'trick' was more bearable.

_But no tricks now_, Sam reflected. Dean was gone, for real. _For real_. And again, Sam was back to waking up feeling wearier than he had before he slept, walking and talking and feeling sick to his stomach all the time. The fact that he had gone through it before was immaterial. The blow never softened, the ache never dulled. He wished he could keep his eyes closed forever.

This wasn't his first round with the damn pills either. They helped him sleep dreamlessly, calmed him down a little, back when he had been living in his trick-reality. Not his first time, sure, but it was certainly his most light-handed... He opened his eyes a crack. The bottle was on the floor, mostly full.

_Oh yes, this was his most light-handed with the pills_...

Wanna talk about hell? Hell was shoving a fistful in your mouth on a dark day, and then losing your guts a breath before losing the contents of your stomach. Feeling like a failure. Feeling like you just betrayed your brother because he would hate that. Suicide because murder was just so damn tiring.

_Hell_... where the _hell_ are you, Dean?

_How the hell am I supposed to drag you back out here_?

As brothers, the two of them always seemed to know how to find each other. Granted, it was surely partly attributable to the fact that Dean screamed his name a lot. Hard to miss, that. Or, if lying unconscious somewhere, it was hard not to wake up and respond to him. But he was fool/dreamer enough to think there must have been a little bit of magic there too.

Lost in a forest, trapped in a house, captured by a monster or just two kids playing an always-anti-climactically-short hide-and-seek, Dean always knew where to find him, and vice versa.

Most recently, Sam had been abducted by a lonely house ghost and Dean found him in a sick, hidden-basement party. He had once found Dean tied up in an abandoned warehouse lying along a nameless stretch of road. Dean had found him in a haunted town in the middle of nowhere. He knew to come to his brother's aid, scrambling down the rickety steps of a wet basement. Dean, even after leaving him, had returned in time to pull him from a fire that had taken the life of his girlfriend. They took turns like that, missing an searching, lost and found.

_If anyone can find you down there_, Sam knew, It _would be me_.

This idea was of course, plagued by two questions. How to get there and how to get out.

_Well going to hell is easy_, Sam thought. The latter one was the tricky part. It would be a cosmic, comedic tragedy for him to go to hell, find Dean, and they both end up stuck. The possibility was weirdly amusing, but he was certain the reality would be... well, _hell_.

His eyes took in the pain pills in his field of vision.

_Going to hell..._

_Suicide used to count, didn't it?_

Sam's eyes snapped open wider.

He snatched up the bottle of pills, and rose to his feet in a fluid motion.

He half-jogged out of Dean's room, found his ragtag team on the kitchen. Bobby, Ellen and Missouri buried in books, the nosy teenager was using his laptop. The EMTs and the doctor were sorting out their things. Jo was making... a meal of some sort. He wasn't sure what the hell time of day it was.

_Good, everyone's here_, he thought, as he hid the bottle of pills in his pocket.

"I'm taking a shower," he said, "Mind knocking on my door if I take too long? I lose track of time in there."

"Yeah, sure," Bobby said, uncertainly, "You can take as long as you want, Sam."

"No, I got a plan," Sam said, "Something we have to talk about right away. Promise."

"You got it," Bobby said, as Sam went up the stairs to the second floor at a jog. Bobby was going to be pissed, he really was. But some things just needed doing.

_If anyone can find you in Hell, Dean_, Sam thought, _That would be me_.

To be continued...


	9. Chapter 9

Author:Mirrordance

Title: Home Road

Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.

" " "

Home Road

" " "  
9

" " "

Hell

" " "

"I want to stay a bit," Bela said, pausing by the mouth of the cave just as the three odd-ball companions were setting out. She looked contemplative, making Ruby's eyes widen to saucers in irritation and Dean, having had a long history of Bela Talbot at her most resourceful, feel a little nervous.

"What?" Dean asked.

Bela shrugged, "Well you didn't want me around to begin with, did you?"

"Now I do," snapped Ruby, "What's going on in that head of yours?"

Bela jerked her thumb in the direction of the Watcher's cave. "There are things I want to know, and he owns objects that interest me."

"A word to the wise, _Abby_," Dean asked, wryly, trying to mask his unease, "He probably already knows you have sticky fingers so... it might not be so wise going up there to steal something."

"I'm not--"

"Dean, I'm not letting her out of my sight!" Ruby snapped.

"What could I possibly do?" Bela retorted, "Besides, I can plant myself here and you absolutely would not be able to do anything to make me come short of dragging or carrying me, and therefore bothering yourselves infinitely more. I am staying."

Dean's eyes narrowed at Bela's face in suspicion, "What are you up to?"

"Nothing--"

"It's never nothing," Dean pointed out.

"There are things I want to know," Bela said, "Isn't that enough? You're not the only one with questions." She turned to Ruby, "You don't want me out of your sight? Then wait two minutes. But since I'm here, there are things I want to know."

"Why don't I just break your face and drag you out?" Ruby murmured, coolly threateningly.

"I'm staying," Bela said, definitively, walking back into the cave.

Dean watched her walk away for a long moment, before glancing at Ruby.

"She's up to something," Ruby said, "I'm not comfortable staying in one place too long. We apparently can't get out of hell, but if we can keep hiding from the worst of it, I'd rather be running around."

"Maybe we--" Dean was saying, before he was, again, assaulted by the vision of his father burning in hell.

" " "

There was always something devastating about watching a parent cry.

Parents... these are the guys who got your back. They're the safety net. The absolute final wall that stood between you and the sucky world. If you see your folks cry, it just brings you to your knees with the realization that you must be royally fucked now. If they're crying, it must mean that the lot of you are in a shitload of trouble.

Dean doesn't see his father cry at least, not a lot. Though he must cry, because god knew sometimes the situations they ended up in could tear a man apart. Maybe that was why he went off on his own a lot. Mom's birthday. His wedding anniversary. Christmas. Her death anniversary. Dean was more than relieved he didn't have to see his father on those days, it really would have hurt like a bitch to watch him cry. John Winchester probably knew that too; he was Dean's rock, and on those Mary-days, he could barely stand on his own much less be strong enough to hold up his sons too. So he'd walk out awhile, come home slightly inebriated to a new day, a new hunt. And then the years rolled on.

The only time Dean could remember his father crying in recent memory was their last conversation together. There hadn't been much of a mention of his mom, that time. John's spiel had been all about Dean, and what he had done for their family. Dean was both suffused and shit-scared. Recovering in the hospital, he didn't understand, until that very moment he saw his father's tears fall, how close he had come to dying. Sam had said a reaper was after him but his dad's tears, that was the real clincher. John had only ever cried for Mary, and now Dean too.

His father's tears molded his world. They told him when things were rough, the same way his father's crinkly, quietly laughing eyes told him when things were going to be okay.

Dean had the same power over Sam. Even when his perceptive kid-brother could see through his mask and his lies, San still always found some semblance of comfort in them. He wasn't sure how he maintained his credibility with Sammy all these years but there it was... right down to a few hours before dying and singing Bon Jovi, Sam found that things could be okay, as long as Dean said so.

Sam, though, he held that power over no one. For all his smarts and toughness and _wondrous_ psychic self, he was still Dean's baby brother through and through: open face, earnest eyes, unapologetic tears. He screamed when he was angry, cried when he was sad.

_Brat_, Dean had always thought, fondly.

He admired and loved openly too, so Dean figured he at least had some of the good along with the bad.

The last time he saw Sam cry was before he died.

_What am I supposed to do...?_ Sam had asked, and his eyes were going to drown the world. It wrenched at Dean's heart, making his own eyes swell with tears.

_I'm proud of you_, he had thought.

_Keep fighting_.

_I know you can..._

In afterthought, that kinda felt like dad, saying goodbye to Dean. This family must really be cursed.

Vaguely, he wondered if, when Sam had been dying in his arms, if there was a part of his brother that had known Dean was crying for him.

_Sam!_

If he had known, would he have come back, fought harder?

Tears molded other people's worlds, he'd been thinking that. He started thinking about that because his father was crying and screaming in hell. _Crying_ and screaming. In hell.

_None of this is real_, Dean tried to tell himself, _Or it was but it's all done now. Dad went to the fricking light. Off to a nice party somewhere with lots of sun..._

_None of this is real anymore..._

_So why does it still hurt like a bitch_?

The play went on, and on, and on...

His father's tears in streaks and rivulets and stagnant buttons over clouded, sightless eyes. Tears down the cheeks, tears drying on his shirt. Tears mixing with sweat, tears lost in blood. Tears over his mouth, sliding to his ears, around his nose. Tears everywhere. Hemorrhaging. Not running out, just running through and through, as if the ocean was getting squeezed out of dad. Sweat and tears, the only water in hell.

He watched his father burn, and they screamed and cried together.

They screamed and cried together so much that, at some point, Dean randomly reflected that the voices had become one.

_I am you_, he thought, replacing his father's image with his own.

Finding a strange comfort in that.

_It should have been me, _he thought, _All this time it should have been me instead of you._

And then John Winchester was gone, and Dean burned and screamed and cried alone.

" " "

Indiana

" " "

Fistful of pills, and no lost guts or lost stomach this time. He seldom ever did things halfway, after all. He had picked up a bottle of rum and chugged half. And then had the glorious marble bath tub (_god,_ Dean was right, these suburban houses were hooked up...) filled up with nice cold water, just enough to fall asleep and drown in.

He removed his jacket and his polo, trailed it with his undershirt as he kicked off his shoes and tore off his socks. There was still a level of shyness that prompted him to keep on the boxers. If he knew what he knew of his very capable friends, people will be happily barging in here to save his life, after all.

He was beginning to feel... _loopy_.

He wondered if he was scared, somewhere beneath the distracting process of his body failing and his raw determination to do this and his utter desperation to save his brother (that was a lot to have to feel... would he have any _room_?). The last time he died, he couldn't remember a thing.

The room was... dancing. Not spin, no, just a lethargic kind of revolution. Dying... this part he sort of remembered. How life narrowed down to you, spinning slowly inward, like a narrowing tunnel of shrinking light. There wasn't anything in the world but you, and you were running out...

He stumbled toward the tub, let himself sink to his rump as he stretched out beneath the water, leaned back, and... just... waited.

" " "

Hell

" " "

Dean thought he may have come upon a brilliant solution to his problems.

It hurt, but not quite as bad, seeing himself suffering in his father's place, owning his misfortune. Screaming and crying in hell alone still felt vastly less painful than watching the same thing happen to his father.

He thought about it a step further... when the visions of Sammy dying come along, he could do the same thing. Cold Oak would be Dean stabbed in the back, and Sam screaming for him to look out. It would hurt far, far less painful to die like that than to hold your baby brother in your arms as he faded away.

Come to think of it... maybe he should have been the one burning on the ceiling too, instead of mom. Him, right from the very beginning. He'll take it, he'll take it all. It would be better. Better than walking around half-dead because everyone else was full-dead. Maybe that was his place, to _take_ their place. Because there was no other room for him. Mom died on the ceiling, Dad died on the floor, and Sam died on his knees somewhere in between. Where was Dean supposed to go?

_I'll take it, I'll take it all_...

He wondered at life's alternate realities.

If he had died in the fire instead of his mother, would his father feel the same level of obsession to find his killer? He tried to imagine his mom and dad and Sam hunting together. His mom could rock a leather jacket too, he bet, looking angstier and blonder and cooler, driving the Impala while her husband drove the truck. Sammy shuttling in between, depending on his mood. Or maybe the three of them would just... re-build the house and go on with their lives? Visiting his grave once a year? Mostly forget about him?

If he had died in that hospital instead of his father, would John and Sam Winchester have carried on the fight together? The Impala would have been left to scrap and sold for parts. Sam and John would work together for a little while, avenging Mary, Jess and the freshest dead inspiration of the bunch, Dean himself. He suspected the two driven Winchesters would have succeeded sooner, hunting the yellow-eyed-demon down. God knows they held absolutely nothing back. But the sooner the job is done, the sooner they'd part, simply because they were just so different sometimes...

If he had died in Cold Oak instead of his brother... _god_, Cold Oak. He abhorred that place to an unimaginable level. He wished it were him instead, him dying on his knees, instead of Sam. But then again... if he had died, Sam would have sold his soul to save him too, right? Which would put Sam in hell shortly after. _So scratch that_. Dean wanted to be the one dying on his knees. He also wanted to be the one crying. Just as he wanted to be the one making the demon deal, and the one burning in hell.

He wanted to be the one burning on the ceiling and the one grieving it. He wanted to be the one dying in the hospital and the one screaming, finding the body. He wanted to be the one dying on his knees in stupid middle-of-nowhere, just as he wanted to be the one who sold his soul and went to hell.

It hurt infinitely less, if it were all him.

_I'll take it, I'll take it all_...

" " "

Sam opened his eyes to a dull-orange-lit hall made of rough, red-brown rock in the few spots he could see the make, from beneath row after row after row of a long length of knickknacks.

_Did I miss something_?, he wondered, running his hands along the nearest row, and frowning at the sight of something very, _very_ misplaced.

Frayed, bloodied, black leather strap, holding an all-too-familiar dull-gold amulet. He reached for it blindly, knocking back a few of the other strange pieces in the display. Two horns, spiral engraving, prominent nose, coffee-bean eyes, elongated, sagging ears, pouting mouth. He gripped it tightly, knew precisely what it was and that it was not supposed to be here, without the man who owned it...

"Dean?!" he called out, his heart thumping in his chest as his voice carried down the impossibly long hallway, "Dean!"

He pursed his lips, just listening. If his brother was hurt, or hidden somewhere, he had to be quiet. But god, he wanted to scream. He wanted to scream and tear this place down.

_This place_...

_Hell_, he remembered. Right. Because that's where a guy like him might go if his last memory before waking was of a fistful of pills and a bottle of rum and a freezing, full-bath and a nap that will take him to forever, mind drowned in drugs and head underwater.

He bit his lip, tried to think.

This was, for very obvious reasons, unsafe territory. If he wanted to help his brother, he had to keep from making his presence known; i.e., he had to shut his trap, even if he wanted to tear the goddamn place down and scream his brother's name at every turn.

He stood stock-still, straining his ears, waiting for a breeze, any sign at all that there was something beyond the maze of junk. The spot where he stood was dimly lit overhead by a dying candle inside an old glass lamp. Its radius was small; a few feet to his left and there was already inky blackness, and the same went for his right side, except, to the right, the blackness was broken a good few feet down by another lamp with a small glowing radius of light.

Toward the dark, toward the light? The answer was theoretically obvious except, Sam thought, if he owned this place, he would be lighting up the deeper parts of the maze that was further from natural light sources, not the ones nearer the outside world.

He stepped toward the inky blackness, tentatively at first, and then with more resolve. He walked and groped in the dark, Dean's necklace wound in a randomly complex knot in his right fist.

The light vanished behind him completely and for a panicked moment, he began to berate himself over his choice. Sometimes, a light was just a light, right? Why did he have to assign his own logic to whoever owned this place anyway? He was obviously a psycho. What if he was going deeper and deeper and deeper to nowhere?

He gripped Dean's necklace tighter, and walked some more.

He wasn't sure how long it took for the pitch black to soften to a a kind of dark, heavy gray. Or was this him imagining things?

_No_, he decided, when the gray softened to a mild purple. Then to a sick brown. A dull orange. There was a light at the end of the tunnel and _there really was_. He was considering a feeling of slight triumph, when he heard the voices.

"We have an accord then, Lucian," a familiarly accented voice was saying.

In the name of god and all that is holy, of all the places in the world and beyond it, did he really have to run into Bela Talbot _here_?

"Bela, Bela, Bela," someone tsked, voice calm and even, "Most people come in here asking questions, not bartering for things. You have a quick eye, spotting that talking board. And a quick mind, deciding to sell out your companions."

"Seems only fair, doesn't it?" she asked, "Apparently, I am a mercenary. The same thing that got me in here is the same thing that's gonna get me out."

"Nothing in life," said the person with whom she was speaking with, "Is ever fair. You know that. Why you would expect otherwise is a wonder to me. You know... if I were you... and I had a chance to be here with me, I would be asking something else entirely."

"What's that?" came the impatient and slightly nervous retort, "Or are you to demand something in return for this also?"

"This one is free," the man replied, "I would ask The Watcher, 'Will I regret what I am about to do?'"

"Will I?"

"Now _that_," chuckled the man, "You have to pay for."

"Wily bastard," she said, under her breath, "They should be here soon, ya?"

"There is no prize more coveted than Sam Winchester's brother, after all," the man said, making Sam step out of the shadows.

The man – a middle-aged looking fellow with crooked teeth, glasses and a rumpled suit – was facing Sam's direction, and had a knowing smile on his face. Bela's back was to Sam.

"What are you smiling about?" Bela asked, turning in Sam's direction. Her eyes widened at the sight of him. "Sam--"

He ignored her, as he looked beyond the two of them at the mouth of the cave. He didn't understand what was happening here. He didn't know who the goofy man was or what Bela was doing with him. He had stepped out of the darkness upon hearing his name and the reference to his brother, not really expecting to see Dean himself, sprawled on the ground just outside, and the familiar form of Ruby hovering over him.

"Get the hell away from him!" Sam exclaimed, shooting forward, pushing past Bela, wanting to push Ruby away too and, strangely enough, even before he could take two steps toward Dean, he watched Ruby's body being tossed away from his brother by an invisible force. He might have wondered if the power had come from him except he slid to his knees next to his brother and could think of nothing else.

"Oh god," he breathed, taking in the sight of Dean before him – beaten and bloodied, sweating, eyes shut tight and tears leaking. His body was just _taut_, tight like a wire stretched to its limit. His jaws and fists were clenched, his body jerking randomly and violently, his mouth making pinched, growling noises, his breaths coming in and out short and fast and inadequate.

"What have you done with him?" he asked, looking up at a stunned Ruby darkly. She was on her ass on the floor, just trying to make her way up to a sitting position.

"Nothing," she snapped, "I was trying to help him, you dumb-ass."

"Oh god," he murmured, hands hovering over his brother's body, shifting, jerking, not knowing where to go, "Oh, god..." He decided on grabbing Dean by the shoulders and pressing him close in an embrace. He buried his face in his brother's neck.

Ruby gathered her feet with a wince and walked warily toward the brothers.

"He gets visions," she explained, quietly, "This is hell, it's the place of your nightmares. He'll pull himself out..." she hesitated, "Eventually." She glanced up at Bela and the Watcher, who also moved toward Sam.

"Stop," Sam told them all, voice ragged. _God_, he didn't know what to do right now. Dean in his arms, that was the plan, that was the plan but that was also all that there was to the plan. He didn't even know if any of this was real or imagined, he didn't know what Dean was doing walking around _hell_ with Ruby and Bela and this other character.

"Step back," Sam said, gravely, raising up a hand. Ruby was going to ignore it, but she stopped mid-step, and held up her hand in wonder at an invisible barrier that was raised between her and the Winchesters.

"Sam..." she said tentatively, tilting her head at him, "Look at what--"

"Shut up," he said, tightening his grip around his brother, trying to think, "Wake up, Dean. Wake up, damn it."

" " "

Indiana

" " "

Missouri stood at the landing of the steps, looking up at the stairwell thoughtfully.

"The boy sure likes his bath," she murmured to Bobby beside her.

"Probably picked it up from Dean," Bobby said, gruffly, "Kid was like a fish. Couldn't stay in there long enough. Not something he picked up from John, that's for certain sure."

Missouri smiled a little. "Those boys."

"Yeah," Bobby grimaced, "You ah... what do you make of all this, huh?"

"Any man has the right to push the limit for his brother," she replied, tentatively.

Bobby shrugged. "These two keep pushing and pushing huh? Something's gonna push back. Then something's gonna give."

"But you can't just stop," she pointed out.

"No," Bobby agreed with a wince, "I guess not." He made for the first step up the stairwell, "I guess I'd best knock on that door and see what he's thought of, huh?"

Missouri's eyes narrowed, thoughtfully, "Give him a minute more."

"Huh?" Bobby asked, brows rising, before just shrugging in agreement, "I guess I could. Probably the first taste of hot water he's had in awhile. His idiot brother's usually a hog."

" " "

Hell

" " "

Dean's body arched from the ground, and mouth opened in a primal cry, as he returned once again to his slightly-more-bearable hell.

"God," he gasped, struggling to catch his breath. For a long moment he lay in that reclaimed shell, breathing, trying to get a grip, trying to find the guts to open his eyes.

"It's okay, it's okay, I'm here..."

And his eyes snapped open with the realization that he was being _held_, and that the damn voice belonged to the person whom he least and most wanted to see here.

_Sam..._

_SAM?!_

His mouth formed breathless, wordless words. Just a grunts, really, as he jerked away from the arms that held him in a desperate, vice-like grip. The arms refused to yield, and he cried out again, desperate for release from this non-Sam Sam, because for hell to give him a vision of his brother meant only that they would soon take him away; make Dean relive Cold Oak, or make him hope he was saved before they take the illusion away. But these damn bastards won't play him, no.

_No_.

The arms gave way, his brother looking hurt and confused, _exactly_ the way the real Sam would, as Dean dragged his ass and scurried toward the now-weirdly assuring figure of Ruby. 'Sam''s head shot up to the demon's in accusation.

"I know, ironic, right?" she told him, dryly.

"He's not here," Dean whispered, staring at his brother's form, and pointing, making him look and sound painfully young. He moved away, and his back touched Sam's most recently acquired talent, the invisible barrier that protected him and his brother from Ruby, Bela and the Watcher.

"Take this down, Sammy," Ruby told him, mildly, fingering the barrier playfully.

"It's Sam," Sam told her automatically and distractedly, though with a flash of realization in his eyes. Only people who had considerable exposure to his yapping brother slipped to call him that so casually.

The barrier fell, along with some of Sam's resolve and Ruby stepped toward Dean and crouched beside him.

"If he's not real, Winchester," she said, "Then we're both dreaming."

He looked at her with wide eyes, gulping, disbelieving, not wanting to hope, fearing to be wrong.

"Besides," she said, "What would it hurt, huh? You got anything better to do than give him a few minutes?"

"He's gonna die," Dean rasped, licking his lips, "He's gonna die in front of me. He's gonna die in front of me."

"Not today, bro," Sam said, earnestly, "I promise. Not today."

Dean stared at him, inched back when Sam made a move forward. "Stay back. Just... please. I... I just... lemme think."

"Are you getting him out?" Bela asked, shifting uneasily from leg to leg, "Did you find a way to get him out?"

All eyes turned Sam's way, expectantly. It was Dean's wounded, searching and still painfully uncertain gaze that he held.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he said, softly, "I don't know how to save you. I saved your body. If you get out of here, you'll have something to come back to. But I don't know how--"

"How did you get here?" Ruby asked him.

Sam bit his lip, glanced Dean's way nervously.

_Now_ Dean knew this was his brother, through and through. He took a deep, shaky breath, wanting to be stronger, wanting to be tougher, wanting to return to the man his brother knew, not this ridiculous, shit-scared character.

"Aw, Sammy," he groaned, "What the hell did you do?"

Even in hell and with all his power and the weight of the last few days, Sam's instinct was to react the way a kid brother would, knowing he had done something very, _very_ bad and was about to get ragged on.

"What was I supposed to do?" he snapped, "No one knew where your stupid ass was! Escaping to hell, what were you thinking, huh, _I_ should be pissed at you."

"What did you do?" Dean asked, voice dangerously low as he struggled to his feet and stalked toward his brother angrily.

"Pills," Sam muttered, "Rum. Bath tub. I knew I could find you--"

"Oh for god's--"

"Bobby's covering me," Sam said, hastily, "I swear."

Dean's eyes narrowed in suspicion, "He'd never go for it," he growled.

"He'd have to when he finds me," Sam offered, lamely, wincing.

"I'm gonna kill you," Dean declared, squatting in front of his brother, eyes searching, "Sam... how long we gonna do this, huh?"

"What do you mean?"

"You dying, me following," Dean said, lowering his voice, "Me dying, you following? We wanna go at the same time, 's that it? We're not fricking siam-con-conjoined twins, huh?"

Sam smiled a little, catching Dean's self-correction, as Sam had corrected him not too long ago.

"I know that," Sam said, mildly, "I understand that. But this is different. This is hell, bro. I am not letting you rot here. I promised."

"I don't expect you to--"

"You do," Sam told him, boldly, adding more quietly, "You should. I want you to."

"Sam," Dean said, eyes softening, voice strained, as he reached for his brother's neck, clutching at his collar. "Sam..."

W_hat am I gonna do with you?_

_What am I gonna do without you?_

"I'm fighting for you up there, bro," Sam said, "You just gotta keep fighting down here too."

"There's a way you can save him," Ruby said.

"Shut up," Dean muttered at her. She ignored him and stepped toward Sam.

"How?" Sam asked.

"Shut up," Dean said again, more insistently now. He rose to his feet and grabbed her by the arm.

"Let her say it and then get out of here," Bela said abruptly.

"What?" Dean asked.

"What the hell did you do?!" Ruby asked, incredulously.

"Just tell him and then _go_," Bela said again, her eyes taking on panic. The Watcher was living by his name, just watching things unfold with an appreciative glint in his eyes, devouring the situation.

"Colt's gate was made—" Ruby began.

"Ruby--" Dean growled.

"You think this is gonna be worse than your brother committing fucking _suicide_ to try to find you?" Ruby snapped, "Colt's gate was made with a spell and the blood of a being part-man and part-demon. If you make another gate, you can go through it and pull Dean out, and seal it before anything else gets out. Since it's a new gate, no one else is gonna know about it, everyone's piled high on Colt's gate. If you're careful, nothing else will get out."

"What spell?" Sam asked, urgently.

"I won't let you--" Dean said, but he was being ignored by the fucking demon in-crowd, apparently.

"I don't know," Ruby said, "But he will," she jerked her thumb at the Watcher.

"No time," Bela insisted, "They're coming--"

And then the world around them felt as if it just _exploded_.

" " "

Indiana

" " "

"Sam?" Bobby knocked on the bathroom door, and pressed his ears against it to listen for a response. The water was running, and he could hear it overflowing and sloshing a little. Even the floor near his feet was getting wet.

"Sam," he called, knocking more insistently, "Get the goddamn water out yer ears and open this door."

His blood started to run cold.

_Mind knocking on my door if I take too long? I lose track of time in there..._

_Promise..._

_You stupid idiot_, Bobby thought, unsure if he meant Sam or himself, _You crazy son-of-a-gun. I thought you were supposed to be the smartest one of the stupid idiot, pit-loving Winchester clan--_

"You'd better have some clothes on, boy," Bobby muttered under his breath, as he kicked the door open.

To be continued...


	10. Chapter 10

Author:Mirrordance

Title: Home Road

Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.

" " "

Home Road

" " "

10

" " "

Indiana

" " "

There was a good load of strength in those old bones, yet, though of course adrenalin had a lot to do with it. Kicking at doors, dragging clinically-dead, soaking-wet six-footers from overindulgent suburban bath tubs and screaming for help.

"Brennan!" he bellowed and bellowed, and the sound was so loud he thought his head was going to pop right off. He laid Sam flat on the tiles, and started feeling for breath and pulse, as if he expected one. The boy's color was not good.

"What did you do, what did you do..." he murmured, as he started doing chest compressions and breathing for Sam.

Ironically, the first respondent was the ridiculously active teeny-bopper. Her head kind of just popped into the room, and her eyes widened, taking in the sight. She had seen something Bobby had missed, and she picked up the mostly-empty bottle of pills and the rum, from the sink.

Her father appeared behind her and was pushing past, except she stopped to show him the things she found.

"Damn it," Brennan muttered, pushing her back and kneeling before Sam. He rattled off orders to the EMT's who had followed, asking for the crash kit, and pumps for suction. The two rushed off to get their equipment.

"We need to get him out to the hall," Brennan ordered, "And we gotta get him dry, right now."

Jessie splashed her way into the bathroom, grabbing every towel she could find. Jo Harvelle was grabbing blankets from the nearby bedrooms. Ellen appeared and helped Brennan and Bobby drag Sam out, as the EMT's returned.

"Dry him out," Brennan said, his voice taking on that toneless, calm doctor's manner, "And start charging."

Bobby stepped back and, feeling cold and old, let the doctors do their jobs.

" " "

Hell

" " "

A flash of light, that was all that there was and then suddenly, the terrain had gone from barren empty to Sam, Dean, Ruby, the Watcher and Bela side to side, completely surrounded by a scene right out of _Dawn of the Dead_. Dark-eyed, expression-less, hollowed faces, staring at nothing, surrounding them completely in a perfect circle. They made as if to move forward, but Sam's protective barrier was raised again, and they remained where there were.

"Is this you, bro?" Dean asked, under his breath.

"I think so," Sam said, softly, brows furrowed in concentration, and uncertainty.

"Fucking force field," Dean murmured, sounding both wary and impressed, "I can't top that can I? Bitch."

"For now," Sam breathed, and Dean suddenly noticed that his brother's form was _flickering_.

"What's going on, Sammy?" Dean asked.

"That's Bobby hauling my ass back," Sam said, desperation beginning to crawl into his voice, "Not so soon, damn it."

In a flash of movement, Ruby sailed past Dean's vision as she slammed her body against Bela, taking them both to the ground. If there was a part of him that had forgotten how good a fighter she was or just how cruel, if there was a part of him that had forgotten she was a freaking _demon_, there was no forgetting it now. She took Bela down in a precise heap, landing at a dominating straddle, as she hit the other woman in the face.

"You're like a goddamn 24-hour convenience store, aren't you?" Ruby asked, "Who's gonna be dining off of you now, huh?" he hit her again, and Dean blinked before stepping forward, trying to pull her back. Ruby kicked and scratched at him like a barn cat.

"Let go!" she yelled at him, "She fucking sold us out, Winchester, figure it out!"

Dean just held her back, looking stunned, unsure about what to do, tempted to let her claws get at Bela, and yeah, and he was as big a fan of hot chicks fighting as the next guy, but it just felt _wrong_. Two sociopaths trying to kill each other just was not good, especially for the innocent by-standers. Ruby kicked carelessly, making holding her back much easier than when she was strategically combative.

"Fucking _whore_!" she screamed.

"Take a breath, potty-mouth," Dean grunted as he pulled her away from the rising Bela, who was glaring at her hotly and shaking.

"Is it true, huh?" Dean asked her, "We helped you, and you sold us out?"

She averted her eyes, "It's only fair. The same thing that got me here's the same thing that's gonna get me out..." But she wouldn't look at him, and Dean realized that she really had been trying to tell them to leave just now, as if she had changed her mind (_not_ a change of heart, knowing her, 'cos he had a sneaking suspicion she misplaced that long ago). Maybe it was guilt, or maybe she was trying to get on Sam's good side so he'd get her out too. But he wanted to think that after awhile, all this backstabbing must get tiresome.

"Only fair?" Ruby retorted, her voice beaking, "You think you're some kind of victim who doesn't deserve to be here? Tell you what, Talbot. Everyone's got a story. Daddy loved you just a little too much, fine, that ain't your fault. But everything else between then and now was all _you_, sister. They promised to get you out of here, did they? Tough. You get up there and I can promise you you won't be seeing resonant fucking light where you can go on to a better place. This is it, and you screwed us all and yourself. Everything else between daddy and now is all you, and you'd have paid for it here, deal or no. Welcome home, bitch!"

_Harsh_, Dean grimaced.

"Lucian!" Bela called out, ignoring her, "Lucian!"

He was the only one with lucid eyes of the whole _Dawn of the Dead_ club. He was an ageless, race-less man, not-quite vampiric because he was not delicate-looking by any stretch of thought. He was grittier, hardier. His thoughtful eyes wore crinkled corners in wisdom, rather than age. Short shock of dark silver hair, blue eyes... he looked misplaced in hell, like a fricking icicle. He stepped forward and the _Dead_ parted, and he broke into Sam's protective circle casually.

"Don't wear my name out," he said, wryly, his voice low and his tone calmly humorous. His eyes had a light of mischievous humor, reminding Dean of the late yellow-eyes. He was trailed by a dark-haired woman who looked like perfection gone wrong, going past beauty to look like an alien. She too, walked past the circle easily.

_Lucian and Dolores_, Dean remembered, from the Watcher's answer. The last two of Colt's 13 demons.

"I told you where they were," Bela said, nervously, "My reward?"

"Does she get thirty pieces of silver?" Dean asked, wryly.

"A Jesus joke," Lucian said with an indulgent smile, "I can almost appreciate that. As it is, she bargained for something much more useful here." He turned to Bela, "My soldiers will get you to the very front of the line to Colt's gate and protect your place there for as long as it takes, Ms. Talbot, as promised. If that gate opens, you will be the first one out."

She nodded, glanced at the Winchesters and Ruby, "Now?"

"If you so wish it," Lucian said, opening his hands out to her, and waving her toward his army, "Anything you want to say in parting to your friends?"

She set her jaws, gulped a little as she looked at Ruby, and then Sam, and lastly, Dean. Was that regret? Was that an apology? Because a film had settled in her eyes, before she shook her head and walked away, trailed by her protectors. As soon as Bela left with about ten of Lucian's soldiers, the place they vacated was filled up by others.

"The least she could have done was given me a kiss for the betrayal," Dean murmured.

"She did you a favor," Ruby spat out, "You could have caught something."

Lucian and Dolores stood a few steps away from Sam, who raised his hand tentatively, before setting it back down on his side. Dean remembered that the powers didn't usually work on others who had them. Sam must have come to the same realization.

"I wasn't counting on Sam Winchester himself being here," Lucian murmured. He turned to Ruby, "You're right, you know."

"About what?"

"Bela Talbot," Lucian said, absently, as he studied Sam's face, "When –_ if _-she gets up there, she'll realize it herself. She already belongs here. I don't mind waiting, she's not going anywhere." He stepped away from wary Sam, and touched Ruby's hair, "You on the other hand... my little optimist."

"Her?" snorted Dean, "Are you serious?"

Lucian smiled tightly, "Am I not correct, Watcher? That our fiery Ruby has oft asked about the road to redemption? Still dreaming about doing enough good things to get into the warm white light. And now here we all are."

Dean's brows rose, and he glanced at the frowning blond, who pointedly ignored him.

"Who are you?" Sam asked, "And what do you want from us?"

"You are Azazel's heir," Lucian replied, "You do not want your throne, but I do. I am Lucian. And we have a common enemy, you and I. Lilith."

"You're all my enemies," Sam corrected him.

"True," Lucian conceded, "But some enemies are more bearable than others. Lilith, as I am sure you have realized, is both hasty and messy. She takes on domination as if she was a hungry child. I, on the other hand, have a very firm understanding that sometimes, true power is in timing and subtlety."

"What do you want?" Sam asked, his form flickering again.

Lucian's eyes lit up in understanding. "You know, you will not be here long," he nodded toward Dean, "And you cannot take him with you."

Sam's jaws set, as his mind raced.

"You will be gone from here," Lucian said, "And with you, the last thing that protects him. I will have your brother when you are gone."

"I'll fight you tooth and nail, old man," Dean growled, "You won't find it easy--"

"What do you want?" Sam asked Lucian, ignoring his brother. Dean grabbed him by the arm, irritably.

"Don't let him use me against you, Sam," Dean said in a low, desperate voice, "I went away precisely to keep this damn thing from happening--"

"What do you want?" Sam jerked away from his brother's grip, looking past him to Lucian.

Lucian glanced from the determined Sam to the pissed-as-hell Dean, thoughtfully. Sam flickered again, making him curse under his breath.

"Think fast, _demon_," Sam snapped.

"Sammy--" Dean growled, grabbing his brother's arm again.

"No," Sam told him, "No, Dean. You don't know what it's like, up there, having you dead. _You_ couldn't live with it, and you're expecting me to? Worse, I have to live with knowing you're here? No."

"Don't do this..." Dean begged.

"Dead guys don't get a vote," Sam snapped.

"No, Sam," Dean continued, his voice low and ragged, "Don't do it..."

Sam's eyes softened a little, and Dean vaguely remembered using that same tone, almost the same words, too long ago. Lying on the ground and bleeding and half-dead but painfully aware that his brother was about to make a huge mistake.

"Not this time, Dean," Sam told him quietly, almost gently, except his eyes had hardened to steel, "Not this time. Lucian - what. do. you. want."

"Sam," Dean said, not relinquishing his grip on his brother, as he struggled for something to say. His chest was heaving. He didn't know what to do, because there was no reasoning with a desperate man, there never was. It would have been like talking to a brick wall, besides, he couldn't argue logic with emotions, they simply were not in the same plane. He couldn't tell Sam that the world might hang in the balance and that they had responsibilities when all Sam could think about was the world _up there, having you dead_. Sam was at least as stubborn as Dean and often more so. Bobby Singer had tried that tack once too, he remembered, and all Dean could think to say was _Let the world end_.

_Let the world end_...

"You're stronger than me," Dean begged, _god_, he hated begging, "You are—"

Sam was still ignoring him, much as Dean himself would have ignored anyone who stood in the way of him saving Sam. _God, I'm gonna doom him_, Dean realized, _I'm gonna doom the whole fucking world_.

He had doomed his father when John sold his soul to save him and now here Sam stood, asking a fucking demon _what. do. you. want._

_I wish I was dead_, Dean thought, his breath hitching in mounting panic, _Like, Colt's gun-dead. Not this fucking stupid half-alive soul being used as the currency of the land. _

_God_, he felt dirty and small. His father had traded him around, for his own good, sure, but wasn't he supposed to have a vote? And now here goes Sam, doing the same thing.

_I really, _really_ wish I was dead._

His vision was beginning to do a neat little spin, and the colors started blurring. A mess of browns and oranges and reds that spun together, looking like dried-up blood.

_I really, _really_ wish I was dead._

Better, he realized, _I wish I'd never been born._

The world spun and spun and spun, and he knew he was fading. Still, a remnant of him struggled.

_Not now, not yet_, it urged, but the voice was a very, very small one, and it felt foreign and unwelcome.

_Sammy needs you_, it evoked, and for a breath, Dean blinked and fought harder, _I gotta stop him_.

_I gotta _save_ him_.

"Don't do it, Sam," he said, softly, barely-there by now, hand a death-grip on his brother's arm, "Don't do it, please. You'll kill me, I swear to god."

Sam shrugged him off, and it could have hurt just fractionally, except the pain was amplified by Sam's refusal to look at him. Dean could see the tears gathering at the corners of Sam's eyes.

"I don't know how to stop you," Dean begged, "Don't make me beg, Sammy... No deals with these fuckers. How hard is it to not-do anything? It'll bite you in the ass in the end, you know that. Haven't we had this conversation before? Hear me, goddamnitt. I chose this, I understood what it cost, it's worth it, I'll be fine--"

"What the hell do you want?" Sam asked Lucian, voice loud, drowning out his brother's pleas.

"Sammy..." Dean whispered.

_It's kinda like I'm not here._

_I wish I'd never been born._

And the world shrank into nothingness and this time, he didn't feel as if he was being assaulted, or invaded, or ass-fucked by a fucking vision. He kind of just swung into one, realized it was already a part of him.

" " "

Dean went down next to him, out like a light, eyes rolled back and body suddenly slack and limbless. The grip on Sam's arm slackened, the first sign that his brother had faded, because otherwise, even half-alive, that grip never would have let loose.

Sam felt the release, and caught him easily, letting the two of them slide to the floor. He felt, with a tinge of regret and deeper relief, that Dean had stopped talking, stopped _begging_, because he feared he would lose his nerve.

Sam looked up at Lucian hotly. "Stop hurting him," he said simply, and dangerously.

"It's not me," Lucian said, "It's this place. The whips and the fire, you can run from. The torturers you can hide from. But the thirst, the hunger, the heat, the visions, the very _illness_ of the air here, you cannot escape."

Dean started to shake in his arms, making him hang on tighter, even as Sam felt that growing detachment to this place, like he was going further and further away...

_Damn it, Bobby, give a guy a minute here_...

"I'm going to ask you to do something you were going to do anyway," Lucian said, squatting in front of Sam, as if willing him to be at ease, instead of looking up at him.

"What's that?" Sam asked.

"Kill Lilith."

Sam scoffed at him. "I was going to kill her to set my brother free. If you have him, I would rather kill _you_."

"Simple fact is you can't," Lucian said, "Not unless I go up there and you shoot me with the goddamn Colt or that knife, mortal weapons which you cannot bring down here. And I don't plan on going up, not yet, not for awhile. You see... I told you Lilith was too hasty, and to an extent, so was Azazel. The world is not ready to be taken by us, not yet. But it will be soon enough. Already your world, _your people..._are destroying themselves. When at last we rise from here, we will have to do very little but take it, because they'd have already offered themselves."

"What...?"

Lucian shrugged, "It's the truth. We wouldn't have to do much to take the world. I can wait a little longer.

"I am what I am," Lucian continued, "I want relief from here as much as the next man. You cannot blame me for wishing to leave. But you and I, we need not be uncivil. There are things you want from me, and things I want from you, after all. I will keep your brother from the whips and the torture and the fire. That is all the protection that anyone can get from here. Only if you agree to kill Lilith for me. She has been a thorn on my side for a long, long while, creating dissent, trying to take Azazel's place. But she is not good enough. She is a fool. But I and my wife, we can rule in his stead, the place you do not wish to take. With Lilith gone, and your refusal to take your rightful place, all shall bow to us. Kill her, give me my throne, and I will not harm your brother."

"Sam," Ruby said, warily, "Strategically, if you get rid of Lilith and everyone follows this megalomaniac, you'd have helped him create a more concentrated effort to take over."

"I know," Sam growled.

Killing Lilith was hard enough, without the added burden of him having a hand in the downfall of the world. Dean would hate him. His father would. Bobby would. Everyone would. Maybe this is what his destiny was about. He was going to destroy the entire world, not by leading an army from hell, no, but helping to create one.

"I will do you one better," Lucian said, smiling slowly, knowing Sam was swaying his way and will have no time to think it through harder, "Of course you've heard that the only things that can kill us are the weapons and ammunition made in the light of Halley's comet? Even after you've repaired the Colt, some of our powerful colleagues could still bend their spoons around the bullets, because they were not made in the comet's light. The light of the comet signaled the beginning of the war. Now you're out of bullets. And the next Halley sighting isn't until 2061. Here and now, Samuel. You and I. Kill Lilith, and I give you my word that I will not rise from here until after that."

"A demon's word?" scoffed Sam.

"Firmer than yours I dare say," Lucian said, "Our greatest punishment, this bureaucracy. Forcing hour honesty. The power comes from the truth of the word. You know this."

Sam flickered again.

"_Think fast, Samuel_," Lucian leered at him.

Sam closed his eyes, pressed his trembling brother close to him.

"This is easy for you," Lucian said, "I'm asking you to do something you'd have done anyway, and I'm not even asking you to stand down once I make my move to take the world. All I'm asking is for you to get that bitch out of my way. You can try and kill me after, I don't care."

"'Cos you think you'll be unstoppable once I kill Lilith," Sam said.

"Frankly, yes," Lucian shrugged, "Besides, as I said, you can't kill me now, not here. And I can't kill you. It's almost like a truce, isn't it? Where people make treaties? This is a good trade, Samuel."

"I can't promise to stop hunting," Sam said, his voice trembling only slightly, "I can't promise not to kill or send back to hell any demon who dares make a mess up there."

"I do not expect you to stand down," Lucian agreed, "And anyone who goes there without my orders deserves the punishment."

Sam rubbed a hand over his face. He was going to kill Lilith anyway. He was going to kill demons and monsters invading the world anyway. This was like getting something (in this case, Dean, who was actually _everything_) for nothing.

"I don't know where she is," Sam said.

"The Watcher will tell you," Lucian said, waving toward the goofy-suit-man.

"And I need that spell," Sam added, "To make my own gate. To ensure that nothing else escapes when I return for him."

"That too, he can give," Lucian said.

"There is a price--" the Watcher began.

"You will take it from me or all those that are mine," Lucian told him, "He has no time. Give him his answers."

"Come with me," the Watcher said to Sam, motioning toward his cave.

Sam blinked and nodded, clutching Dean tightly one last time, before lowering him to the ground as gently as he could. He closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against his brothers and clutched at the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry, Dean. Please,_ please_ hold on," he murmured, before rising to his feet and looking at Ruby.

"Watch him for me," he told her, "And I will not forget you."

"Are you sure about what you're doing?" she asked him.

"No," Sam admitted, "But I have no choice. There are many people, you know, more than I thought at least, fighting this war. But Dean... he's all _I_ got. I'm all _he's_ got. I have to believe... I have to believe that it doesn't all depend on me or my mistakes, and that when this thing blows, that Lucian is wrong about the world. That there'll be a shitload of people kicking back."

She nodded, and glanced at Dean's necklace, still wound around Sam's right hand. "Take that with you if you can. He needs it back, but they will only take it from him again."

Sam tightened his grip on the necklace, stole one last glance at his brother, and then walked after the Watcher.

"The spell is in a sheet here somewhere," the man muttered as he led the way back to his cave, "But the other answer I can give you easily. You'd have figured it out too, eventually, if you weren't so... distracted."

"Where is Lilith?" Sam asked, making the smaller man's lips curve into a smile.

"You were willing to kill a little child to get to her, you know," the Watcher replied, "Chock it up to casualties of war. I promise you now, though I think you already know, you'd have killed any form she came in to save your brother."

Sam just walked with him, said nothing. Knew what he was saying was the truth.

"But there is one form you would never harm," the Watcher said gleefully, and Sam realized that he was looking at the fates of all of them as if they were made for his entertainment.

"You will find Lilith hidden in the one mortal shell you would never touch," the Watcher told him, making his head shoot up in alarm, and sudden realization.

_"What did that to him?" the mother of the home had asked, when the two of them were kneeling by Dean's dead body._

_"Dogs," Sam had replied with a grunt, as he drew out surgical scissors from the first aid kit, and started getting rid of the remnants of Dean's clothes. He did it with practiced precision, and tossed aside the soggy, bloodied pieces of clothing and, occasionally, he almost gagged, torn muscle and flesh..._

The hellhounds have broken the tattooed ward on his brother's chest.

_"Where's your brother?" Bobby had asked._

_"There," he replied distractedly, and vaguely. _

_"...Is Dean all right?"_

_Sam had looked up at him hotly. "No, Bobby, he's dead. Now help me."_

_"Dead--" Bobby said, turning on his heel, determined to head off to find Dean, except Sam grabbed him firmly by the arm._

_"Nothing you can do for him in there," Sam had said._

But he was wrong, he realized now. He had left his brother's body unprotected, and now someone else was at home.

" " "

Indiana

" " "

Coming back from the dead was a _bitch_.

Sam's head felt as if it was stuffed with cotton, his body half-his and half... god, he was floating, and he didn't know where the rest of him was. He gulped, breathed in and out and in and out, wanting to open his eyes. Wanting to say something. His stomach felt like it was burning. His head was imploding.

And that was just the beginning, wasn't it? Because he had a shitload of other things he had to do? Breathe, open eyes, rise, _save brother_--

His eyes shot open.

"I could throttle you," was Bobby Singer's _Welcome back to the world of the living_, first words out of his mouth from the first face Sam awoke to. Vaguely, he thought that he was not in the habit of waking up in front of people... primarily because he did not let his guard down, let alone sleep, in front of them. There was Jess, of course, she brightened his days. There was his dad who was always either gruffly reassuring (when he was hurt or ill), or simply annoying, when he was getting roused for training (Dean did the rousing for school). Then of course, there was Dean himself, to whom Sam had woken to in every imaginable situation.

He woke to Dean grinning like a doofus, shortly before Sam rose to find that, at age seven, he had grown a permanent marker mustache overnight. He rose to an impatient Dean, wanting to go somewhere else. He's woken to a teary-relieved Dean, when he was seriously injured. He's woken to an anxious Dean, needing to run away with him somewhere safe. He's woken to a grouchy Dean who was also just woken up by their dad. He's woken to a hesitant, worried Dean, after Jessica burned...

_Dean_, he thought, a sharp pain in his heart.

"Bobby," he rasped, making an effort to push himself up to his elbows. God, his stomach was burning, making him cry out in surprise. The older hunter shot forward and tried to push him to lay back down, palms placating on his chest.

"Take it easy, idiot," Bobby muttered at him, "We barely pulled ya back--"

"We," Sam gasped, wincing as he struggled, and leaned on one arm, raising up his right hand. He opened his fist, and Dean's necklace dangled from the spaces in his fingers, "We gotta talk."

Bobby's eyes widened, looking at the amulet, brows furrowing.

"You don't say."

To be continued...


	11. Chapter 11

Author:Mirrordance

Title: Home Road

Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.

" " "

Home Road

" " "

11

" " "

Indiana

" " "

"Help me up."

"Sam, no--" Bobby hesitated, hands floundering as the youngest Winchester hissed and cussed and pushed himself to sit.

"Damn it, Sam--"

"Help me," Sam said irritably, and the tone would have ruffled Bobby's feathers except Sam's eyes had taken on wildly screaming desperation.

"All right, all right," Bobby breathed, and helped Sam up to sit, before scurrying back and forth from one end of the room to the other, to toss him more decent clothes and serve hot tea to make him more comfortable, all the while muttering curses about crazy Winchesters and why in god's name did they both have to take after crazy John...

Sam drifted in and out of the resigned tirade, head lolling as his shaking hands worked, putting on clothes, scowling at the proffered tea before finally taking it, resting the cup over his sore stomach. He felt like he was wrung out, or better, put inside-out, which was probably the more accurate description. They'd have pumped all that shit out of his body, after all.

"Devil's trap," Sam said.

"What?" Bobby asked.

"This is the room right on top of Dean's, right?" Sam said, "Devil's trap, on the ground. And just to be sure, I want one more, on the ceiling of the basement right underneath."

"Sam--"

"Bobby, please," Sam begged, "I would do it on my own except I can't go so fast right now, damn it--"

"Is Dean...possessed?" Bobby asked, alarmed.

Sam's eyes had taken on a haunted, scared-shitless look. "Lilith hid where she knew I wouldn't look. She hid where, once found, she knew I couldn't hurt her."

"Goddamnitt," Bobby cussed, dropping everything he was doing and heading for the door.

"Bobby, wait," Sam called after him, making the older hunter stop in an agitated pause at the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot, anxious, but unwilling to rush the just-returned-from-the-dead.

"Quietly," Sam said, "Don't make a show, as much as possible don't let the others know."

"But none of them are possessed for sure," Bobby pointed out, "If Lilith is in there, she's got no one else near. We got everyone rigged with the charms to make sure--"

"She'll know something's going on," Sam said, "If people start acting strange around her. And then there's no telling what she'd do."

"You got it," Bobby agreed, jogging for the stairs.

" " "

Minutes later, Bobby trudged back into Sam's room from the basement to find him back in bed, leaning heavily against the headboard and breathing harshly. He looked beyond the young man at the cleared a space on the floor, where a Devil's Trap had been drawn with Sam's usual precision, injury or no. Still, the activity had taken its toll, and he looked ill and shock-y, lying back like that.

"I saw him, Bobby," Sam said, quietly, the desperation-fueled adrenalin of his first waking beginning to ebb as it ate at his bedraggled body. But there was no telling him to stand down, not this time, so Bobby said nothing, understanding full-well that they had a job to do now, more than ever. He remembered having a conversation like this with Dean too, just before that goddamned Cold Oak nightmare; Dean on the hood of his car, plastered by a vision of his brother. Looking ill also, and just as stubbornly determined.

_I saw him, Bobby..._

Bobby glanced at the amulet that was still wound in Sam's unyielding hand. It hadn't been there when he hauled Sam out of the tub, else he'd have known. It hadn't been there when they settled Sam in bed. God knows how, but Sam opened his eyes and reclaimed himself and suddenly it was just _there_.

"I could always find him," Sam murmured, "Never thought anything of it. But I... when I woke up in hell and found this, I knew he had to be near."

"It's just a toy," Bobby shrugged, "I looked it up before I gave it to you to give to your dad, Sam. Lots of unthinking knuckle-heads use occult objects carelessly and end up hurt. I wouldn't have taken a chance with you boys. Your daddy would have strung me up."

"But sometimes," reasoned Sam, "Belief in an object gives it power, right?"

"I guess," Bobby shrugged, "I gave it to you 'cos you were always looking for yer daddy. You were so sure giving him a present could keep him around more, see how much his boys cared for him. Hell, even just the idea of a present, you thinking he would be with you for Christmas, have him around... it began with that, I guess.

"And then yer idiot brother never took it off," Bobby added, "Thinking it was like keeping _you_ near. Belief, with the symbolism: the horns for power. The exaggerated facial features for heightened senses – seeing, hearing... even the spiral on the forehead – traditional symbol for an eye, like a third eye... maybe."

Sam had closed his eyes, and Bobby wondered if the boy was rightfully losing consciousness now.

"He uh," Sam hesitated, blinking himself back, "He didn't look so good down there. But what was I supposed to expect, right?"

"Sam..." Bobby said, unsure of anything else.

The youngest Winchester's eyes began to water thickly. "I'm," his voice shook, "I'm starting to think if I can live with him gone."

Bobby's brows furrowed, wondering where the hell this was going. The bull-headed youngest Winchester had fought tooth and nail to get here and _now_ he's doubting? He had _seen_ Dean and now he wants to just stop?

"Why?" Bobby said, finding that his voice was barely above a whisper, as his heart was strangled with fear, "What... what did you see of him, down there?"

_Have we lost him?_

_What's left...?_

_...Is that why...?_

"No," Sam shook his head vigorously, "No, nothing like that. It's just..." Sam looked away, his chest heaving shakily. His fingers tightened around the covers beneath him.

"Someone else has him," Sam said, "Someone who wants Lilith dead. Told me he'd protect Dean down there, if I killed Lilith up here. If I killed Lilith, he'd give Dean back to me."

"And Dean would just... float right outta hell?" Bobby asked, skeptically.

"No," Sam answered, "I gotta get him out. I make my own gate."

He gave Bobby the short version of their current nightmare. Bobby listened intently, asking questions here and there, making clarifications, trying to remain objective and clear-headed as if he was working on a hunt, instead of fighting for the lives of men he thought of as sons.

Sam told him about how Colt's gate was made. _A spell and the blood of a being part-man and part-demon?_ It made sense in a way, like this being was the embodiment of a cross between the two worlds, much like a gate himself. Bobby noticed Sam's eyes had darkened at that, and wordlessly, they both understood that the being in question in this case was Sam himself. Bobby didn't know how, or what that would mean in the future. He couldn't bear to think of what that could mean, this... this kid, being some sort of a hybrid-demon. But what he did know, for now and that might be enough, was that Sam can save his brother.

Sam told him about what made the Colt and its bullets so powerful. He told Bobby about Halley's comet, about the demon throwing in one more shot into the pot, about not breaking into the world until the next time the comet comes around.

"I'd be dead by then," muttered Bobby, thinking, _Lucky me_.

Sam shrugged, "I'd be old. But I get Dean and I get a truce if I kill Lilith, which I would have done anyway except..."

"She's in there," Bobby breathed, "Do you boys ever catch a break? If we exorcise her..."

"No, no," Sam said, shaking his head, "Lucian wants her dead. Her going back down there will royally piss him off, they're fighting for the same turf. Is there... is there a spell of some sort, you know, something that like, transfers a possession to... to another object, something inanimate or even... even some other living thing?"

"You wanna shove her inside someone else you'd have the balls to kill?" Bobby snapped at him, turning angry, angry at the emerging homicidal desperation and at the same time, fearing it.

Sam winced at the tone.

The boy was no killer, not yet, far from. What he was was desperate, and it was so hard, so hard to separate the two sometimes. It was remarkable, how the effects of the things you do because you hate are the same as the things you do out of love. The road to hell is paved with good intentions after all, so they say...

"What if I offer--"

"No," Bobby told him, before Sam could voice _myself_. "No," Bobby insisted, "I told you I'd draw the line somewhere, Sam, and this isn't just a streak, this is a goddamned faultline. I am not gonna let you do that. You have gifts, boy--"

"A curse," Sam corrected him, darkly.

"Whatever," Bobby snapped, "You let that bitch into your body and we are _all_ gonna go through all sorts of hell. I am not gonna let you do that. Your daddy'd be pissed as hell at me. Dean's gonna run me over with the car. You wanna spit on your daddy's grave, Sam? On _Dean's_? I ain't helpin.'"

"What am I supposed to do?" Sam asked, jaws tightening, "Am I just supposed to... to kill Dean, huh, to get at her? Or keep her in there until she gets sick of his body? Why do I have to make a choice like this, huh? Why do I have to care about everyone else and not my own family? Why can't I just do what dad and Dean did, screw everyone, take care of my family first. Why? Dad could die for Dean, Dean could die for me, what the hell does everyone think _my_ job is?"

Only a damned Winchester would be jealous of dying for someone else. _Dad could die for Dean... Dean could die for me... what the hell does everyone think my job is..._?

"Your job's to _live_, Sam," Bobby said, "I'm not saying it's fair, and we both know it ain't easy. But you got gifts, a curse – whatever – that gives you a different responsibility. You don't get to die for Dean, Sam. You get to live. You _gotta _live, and you gotta fight."

"I just want my family back," Sam said, in a broken whisper, "I just... want _him_ back. He couldn't live like this, I don't know why he thinks I could. I'm pissed as hell at him, Bobby..."

"The people who love you," said the older hunter, "The people who raised you, who gave their time and their childhood and their very life for you, the people who _believe_ in you, they got a right to expect impossible things from you, Sam. They got a right to ask you for irrational things."

Sam closed his eyes, took a deep, shaky breath. Bobby suspected his words rang true and home, and shouldn't have been new to Sam. He had, after all, opened this discussion by saying he was wondering if he could live without Dean.

"You gotta live," Bobby insisted, "And you gotta fight. No more offering up yourself, all right?"

"And what about Dean?" Sam whispered, "She's not leaving his body for anyone less than me, Bobby, we both know that."

"If you kill his body to get to her," Bobby said, softly, settling his lonely gaze on Sam, "You at least set his soul free. I'm not sure if you can live with him dead, Sam. But I _am_ sure you can't live with him in hell."

Sam stared at him for a long moment.

"Okay," Sam breathed, "Okay."

" " "

Hell

" " "

If there was one good place to start thinking it was better not to have ever been born, it was, fair enough, hell.

Dean trudged along next to Ruby, finding it easy not to think about the supportive fingers that dug into his arm as she half-pulled him along, finding it easy to drift and not think about anything at all.

The two of them walked side by side, flanked left and right and front and back by Lucian and Dolores' followers. They were to be taken to the couple's stronghold, passing by the heart of hell as they walked... Fire pits and whips and wailing and torture and pain and tears and inescapable, stifling _suffering_ were the sights along the length of the road, sporadically broken by crippling visions of a more personalized torture that often drove Dean to his knees.

"Why wouldn't you want to be born?" she asked, suddenly, out of the blue.

His brows raised, surprised for a moment until he realized he must have been saying things without knowing it. _Ranting and raving and screaming things_, he grimaced, _Might even be the better term_.

_'Cos Sam's fucking up his life for me._

_'Cos my dad did the same thing._

_I let down the people that I love._

_I guess that's what I do_...

_Anything that does that is better not to have been born. This is obvious stuff._

He didn't answer her question, and she didn't seem surprised or offended. For a good portion of their eternal walk, she let it go and he himself forgot about it, up until the next time he awoke to find himself down on the ground again, with her face hovering over his.

"You gotta start talking to me," she said, her voice low, "If you wanna hang on to the things you don't want to forget."

_Forced honesty and talk_, he realized, as he wordlessly pushed himself back to his shaky feet, _Sammy would be laughing his ass off, me stuck in yapping chick-flick moments to survive._

But the thing was... he _did_ want to forget.

And more and more, he was finding that he did not mind_ not _surviving.

" " "

Dean forgot that there were quite a few nightmares worse than watching each of your family members die.

The first one was if they died because of you. That one was dad, yeah. Worse than him being dead was it being Dean's fault. And if Sam got hurt or died trying to kill Lilith all just to save his stupid soul, that would be pretty crippling too.

But fault was always different from actual action. It would be even worse than these two things, if they had actually died at his hands.

_Look out for Sammy._

_Kill him._

_Save him._

_How certain are you that what you brought back is 100 percent pure Sam?_

_As long as I'm around, nothing bad is going to happen to you._

_Show your brother the killer you really are..._

He was confused. How could all these things possibly come together? How could all these contradicting things just come down on him? How's he supposed to know what to do about this? How's he expected to make objective decisions when he had nothing else but Sam?

He wasn't scared _of_ his brother, that was the only thing he was sure of. Even with a gun pointed his way (about thrice now) and fired (hell, thrice now too, that's like, what, a hundred percent? With an actual bullet and a salt round making their ways home?), he feared him not at all.

But should he?

_"For the last few weeks I've been having these feelings," Meg-in-Sam had said, and in that heart-stopping moment, Dean had thought that the words were truly his brother's, "Rage. Hate. And i can't stop it. It just gets worse. Day by day it gets worse."_

He's scared _for_ his brother, and that was a monumental difference. He's never doubted Sam. All he doubted was his own capacity to protect him. Watch him. Save him.

_"Dean you promised him," Meg-in-Sam had begged, "You promised me. I don't wanna hurt anyone else. I don't wanna hurt you..."_

_"Dean kill me," Meg-in-Sam had begged again, "Or I'm gonna kill her. Please, you'd be doing me a favor."_

_Shoot me. _

_Shoot me!_

Just before Dean was dragged down to hell he remembered that Sam's face was distorted, like an _actual_ actual demon's_. _

_Fugly.  
_

Less fugly than Lilith, but that was hardly flattering. There was nowhere to go up from there, after all. But he looked like one of them. He really, truly looked like one of them.

_Mom's dead because of Sam,_ he tested the thought in his mind, and realized it didn't feel very alien. Like it was something that had crossed his mind before. There was no assignment of blame to it, though, not at all. There was no part of him that he could bring to hate Sam. It was just objective cause-and-effect, exactly like _Dad's dead because of me_, something he also knew Sam could not resent him for.

There was nothing about Sam that could bring Dean to hurt him, not even that thought. There was nothing about Sam, part-demon-ness and all, that could bring Dean to any point closer to pulling that trigger against him.

_Shoot me!_

_But nothing can _ever _make Dean do it._

The tragic thing about this stupid hell-vision was that it also had the capacity to shell out crippling truths. He imagined what their future would have been, if Sam went and turned into the demon he feared, the demon he thought was hiding inside his own skin.

Sammy can kill Jo.

Sammy can slit Bobby's throat.

Sammy can murder hunters up and down the country and Dean would just follow in his Impala, pretending he was in some macabre crusade to try and stop him, but, always getting there, never would.

He rode out the horrid vision, because there was nothing else to do.

_It will burn his soul black, to let Sam keep going. His eyes will darken too. One day, his heart would be so black it would stop caring and could, finally, just shoot Sam in the evil fucking face. But by then, he probably wouldn't either. Because he won't care enough to stop all the crap his brother's been up to. _

_Just two black souls walking, here. _

_Everybody just get the fuck out of the way_.

" " "

He fell and woke and fell and woke and once, he realized with a jolt, the waking looked as bleak and black as the losing-himself part.

"Oh god," he gasped, scratching at his eyes, scrambling to sit up, feeling stifled and choked by the darkness.

"Calm down."

_Ruby_, Dean realized, turning his head toward her voice, trying to catch his breath.

"I am calmed down," he snapped, irritably. As calm as he could possibly be, that is, given the circumstances. He couldn't seem to slow his breathing. He didn't like it, being cooped up in flat-dead-dark like this.

"Something's wrong with my eye," he said, hesitantly, hoping it was just him and he wasn't really, wasn't really _trapped_, like this.

She snorted. "Yeah, sure. They shoved us in a goddamn cell, Winchester. You're not afraid of the dark, are you?"

"'Course not," he muttered, "It just really annoys me a lot."

He clawed at his eyes again, wanting to see, wanting to be set free from the dark. He growled in irritation, and closed them, seeking some form of relief, except closed or open, everything was the same. And it was stiflingly hot. The air moved not at all, it just hung around them heavily. The air and the dark, descending on him...

"Trying to keep us out of trouble, are they?" Dean murmured.

"Yeah," she agreed, and he heard the grimace in her voice.

"Well, well," he said, grinning half-heartedly, the quip coming in just a beat too late, "Sounds like somebody else is afraid of the dark after all."

"No," she snapped, "_It just really annoys me a lot_."

Now he snorts at her.

"I guess," she hesitated, "It's that one facet of hell I've never had to try before. The one place where there is nothing to be done. No pain, no hurt. Just... _nothing_. And I thought I'd seen everything there is to see down here."

"I don't know," Dean said, and he was feeling a lame attempt at a half-hearted joke, "There's lots of things a guy and a girl can do in the dark."

It sounded like a B-movie conversation, this talk they were having. Like two characters, with bad lines and awful timing. The words felt forced and loud and misplaced, just hanging in the air, the jokes coming in two seconds too late each time, and he was just too tired to make things any better, or more real.

"My um," Dean cleared his throat, finding it hard to summon that small, dying part of him that wanted to fight harder, that regretted the hopelessness, "My dad, stubborn son-of-a-gun. Stayed down here a long while, you know, far longer 'n me, and he still didn't lose his mind. Not only that, he managed to crawl out of hell by himself without pestering nobody. He saved my life, and then walked out to the light. He's really out there, huh? Better man than me."

"I wouldn't say that," she said, wistfully, "It's different for everybody, Dean. His hell's not the same as yours. His hell was just your mother, burning. And he's been living with that long before he landed down here. Her dying turned him into a bastard too, the way the fires shape a demon. You, on the other hand... your hell is your mom burning, your dad burning, your brother dying, your brother turning... I'm not saying his was easier, but you gotta give yourself a little more credit."

He just grunted, uncomfortable with being comforted. By a demon.

"What's your hell?" he asked.

"I'm not in the mood for this," she muttered at him.

He found it ironic that he was doing the discussing and she was brushing him off, like he would have done with Sam.

" " "

_Of course_ Dean had mommy issues.

Your mother dies at age four and her killers become your father's obsession and, consequently, the search for them becomes your life and this is pretty obvious.

And the other obvious thing is that he had daddy issues too; probably more than Sam himself, because Dean's were buried so deep they grew roots that stretched to everywhere. Not to mention that his father died and went to hell for him.

The Sammy Thing was a little bit more complicated.

Conventionally, people would think there was some sort of a sibling thing. Rivalry, sure, he enjoyed the competition as much as anyone. Jealousy... strangely, not really. He didn't mind that Sam was smarter, got higher grades, got more friends, got hot girls, got better chances in life, got to have a childhood, _got taller_. How could he be jealous about the things he helped provide? How could he be jealous of the man he helped create? He was always just proud of Sam.

Proud because, big brothers can't lose. _Ever_. It was totally a win-win situation. If he's better at something, great, he had a fan. If Sam was better than him, its because he taught him how. Dean learned this lesson early. When it came to Sam, there was just always a sense of victory.

Betrayal though... there was, unfortunately. More than a little bit. Primarily because being left behind sucked, for anybody. And Sam tended to do that to him, a lot. Leave for Stanford. Leave once this is all over. Leave to look for dad. Leave to look for himself. Always leaving. That's why... for all the things he loved about Sam, selfish was that one bad he'd never been afraid to say. The most annoying thing of all, though, was that now that Dean wanted to be left alone, the blockhead wasn't letting go.

_Let me go Sam_, Dean begged, _My body's dead, my mind's half-gone... it was questionable to begin with, but now more than ever, I'm pretty sure I'm not worth the things you're doing to get me back. No deals, Sam, and don't risk yourself. Just kill all these bastards and walk away._

_I'm not worth it._

" " "

Indiana

" " "

Sam silently watched Ellen from the door frame, as she stood over his brother in easy affection, a hand over his, telling him about how he had embraced her the year before, just after the Roadhouse burned down.

"Like you were really happy to see me," she said, and Sam could hear the small smile in her face, "I felt safe for the first time in a long time. There was something inside me that broke, you know, that very last part that blamed your father for my Bill. You're really around, you know, to make up for the things your daddy couldn't be, for all the great that he was.

"Looked out for your brother," she went on, "Set straight the relationships your father bulldozed over with Bobby and me. You're all right."

Sam's eyes watered, and he held back the tears and the rage, feeling ill that it was Lilith receiving these words in Dean's body, and not Dean himself.

"Won't let you marry my daughter, _hell no_," she chuckled, "But you're all right." Her tone softened and lowered again, "We're all rooting for you up here. Sam looks like he can do anything, so you just gotta hang on a bit longer--"

"Ellen?" he called out to her, finally unable to stand the scene.

"Hey Sam," she said, a little bit self-consciously, "Glad to see you up and around. I was just having some words for your brother, here."

"Yeah?" he said, pretending not to have heard a thing as he stepped forward, "You mind, ah, giving me a few minutes?"

"'Course not," she said quickly, moving around him, and he noticed she gave Dean's hand a parting pat, "You can take as long as you want, Sam."

"Thanks," he said, half-smiling and half-grimacing at her, giving her a light wave as she stepped outside of the room and closed the door behind her.

The smile faded completely from his face as he set a determined look down at his brother's wrongly-occupied body.

_Dean's not in here_, he thought, _If I kill Lilith, he won't get killed_.

The body will be harmed, there was no way around that. But then Dean's body has been dead for awhile now, sustained only by machines. A few more scars, especially if strategically placed and quickly treated, would be just like adding one more injury to a litany. The most important thing, though, was that Dean's soul wouldn't die as Lilith's will, because he simply was not in there at the moment.

Sam heard the door open behind him, and Bobby stepped inside before closing it again. On his hand was a makeshift iron brand forged with resourcefulness from the fire place pokers, glimmering hot from when he had heated it in the Martha Stewart-esque oven.

He nodded at Bobby, signaling him to come forward and do what they had set out to do.

Sam gripped his brother's slack hand in a death-grip.

Bobby shot forward and let the brand, a symbol for a binding link, press against the skin of Dean's forearm, as he murmured a spell.

Dean's eyes shot open. He couldn't cry out because of the tube that ran down his throat, but he bucked, and arched, as the burn left a mark.

Still gripping the now un-limp hand, Sam turned it over palm-up, and with his free hand, grabbed Ruby's knife from the holster on his belt. Gritting his teeth, he slid the knife neatly along the veins on Dean's wrist. In a flash of moment, he reached for Dean's other wrist and did the same thing.

Dean's blood started gushing out everywhere - on the white sheets, on Sam's clothes, just... _everywhere_. And then, gasping, Sam stepped back beside a gawking Bobby, just at the very outlines of the Devil's Trap.

Side by side, they watched as Dean's body writhed and arched and kicked.

The machines around him were going crazy.

His eyes were open and imploring, looking injured and earnest, as if asking, _Sammy, what are you doing?_

_Sammy, no._

_Sammy, why...?_

Sam shook his head, trying vainly not to be fooled. He breathed out "_Cristo_"and the shift from begging to a wince and glaring, and green eyes to white, was enough to keep him focused, at least for a little while, knowing that what he was doing was the right thing.

Urgent footsteps sounded from the halls, and the door to the room was thrown open, the doctor and the EMTs running inside, trailed by Jo and the teenager.

"Back off," Sam told them, quickly, raising up a hand to keep them from moving toward Dean.

"Are you out of your mind?" Brennan snapped, but he held his ground, and watched, horrified, as Dean raised up bloodied arms and started pulling out the tube from his throat. He coughed, and cried out, and threw it away from him, glaring hotly at Sam. There was, by now, blood on the equipment and the bed and the pillows and Dean's clothes.

Dean threw aside the blankets, chest heaving, tearing off all the wires clinging to his body. He looked like a nightmare. All blood and staggering movement and growling, wordless sounds, angry white eyes.

He opened his mouth, and released an unearthly, angry cry at Sam, who was watching him, coldly. Dean stalked toward Sam, but was held back by the invisible force of the Devil's Trap. He slammed himself against it once. Twice. Crying like a madman and getting even more blood on everything, before standing there, huffing, and glaring.

"Aren't you clever," he growled at Sam.

"Lilith," Sam said, his voice raw, "It's over. You can't escape his body, you can't escape the Trap, and I've used the knife to inflict fatal wounds. It's over."

Dean/Lilith's head tilted at him maliciously. "I will bite his tongue off.

"I will tear his eyes out.

"I will break his neck.

"If you thought," he/she gasped, as the blood loss started to take its toll, "If you thought it was broken before... if you get to shove his soul back in here, he would be nothing, and he can only hate you. Hate you, until you pity him so much you will kill him yourself in the end."

Sam's body was trembling. He wished he had tied her up first, but it would have tipped her off to their plan sooner. All he could hope now was that he had cut her enough that she would bleed to death and weaken before she could inflict any lasting damage on Dean's already battered body.

Dean's/Lilith's fingers clawed toward Dean's eyes.

Sam stepped forward, instinct taking over.

"Sam!" Bobby exclaimed.

But neither Sam nor Lilith had any powers in that circle, and Dean's body was running out of steam. Sam took Dean/Lilith forcibly by the forearms. He/she spat and kicked and struggled against him.

Sam could taste his brother's blood, could feel it staining everything he wore as he struggled with Lilith, and held his brother's body in a forced embrace from behind.

Arms incapacitated, her jaws started working, and she was going right for Dean's tongue, until Bobby shot forward too, and forced the hilt of a knife between her gnawing teeth.

She fought them, tooth and nail, growling, clawing, snarling.

Dean's blood was everywhere.

Sam was losing his nerve.

But finally, Lilith was dying.

Something bright flickered from within her borrowed face. It flickered and shivered, and dimmed slowly, as gradually as her jerky, fighting movements began to still.

Bobby stepped back, and took the knife away from Dean's – and it really was just Dean by now – mouth. The older man looked practically green-gray. Sam, shivering and sobbing unknowingly and rocking himself and his brother's now-still body, looked worse.

The room looked like a scene from an exorcism movie gone wrong.

No one should have to watch their brother die twice.

Sam's been around that block over a hundred times now.

The entire household was staring at him. He wanted to tear their horrified, pitying eyes out.

Sam caught his breath, let the tears get lost with all the blood and sweat on his face. He clutched Dean's body tight to him. Lilith was dead. Next on the agenda was weirdly easier. Shed some blood, mutter some chants, step into hell, pull your brother's soul out.

_But pull him out to what?_

_To go back to this broken shell?_

_Or to go free, out into the goddamn light?_

"Sam?" Bobby asked, "What do you want to do now?"

_Can I live with you dead_?

_Can I live with myself if I put you back in here, handicapped and hurting, just because I couldn't? Broken body, and, _he suspected,_ dented spirit_?

"Sam?" Bobby crouched down in front of him, peering closely at his face, "Sam. You with me, boy?"

Sam blinked up at him a few times, before replying.

"Yeah."

_Not really._

"What do you want to do now?" Bobby asked him again.

_Can I live with you dead..._?

_Can I live with myself if I put you back in here, handicapped and hurting, just because I couldn't? Broken body, dented spirit..._?

To be continued...


	12. Chapter 12

Author:Mirrordance

Title: Home Road

Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.

" " "

Home Road

" " "

12

" " "

Hell

" " "

They were bound to come, the visions about Sam.

The realization struck him like a stab in the gut. Like a demon's invisible hands raking through his insides and turning them into _outsides_.

But the moment it started, _god_, he couldn't wrench himself away, because the visions always started with comforting things. Like mom and her night gown, dad and his scent. He was going to be given a chance to know his brother through and through, through the borrowed eyes of a dark god, sure, but still. It was Sam and as always, Dean could never resist him.

The vision brought him to the very, _very_ first time he met Sam. He forgot he remembered. His mom was just _huge_ with carrying another life inside of her. With her insistence and encouraging smile, Dean had tentatively reached for her rounded belly, and it was the first time any of them ever felt Sam _move_.

_Quickening_, they called it. Dean liked the word.

Mom said the baby kicked at his touch, but Dean knew different. He touched his mother's belly, and he insisted the baby had reached out from inside too. Sam wouldn't _kick_ at him, for crying out loud. She laughed and indulged him.

He couldn't wait to see Sam. They were friends even before he got out. The _bestest_. He knew right off the bat that from then on he had a sidekick, for tossing footballs and television and music and games and Lucky Charms and Mac and Cheeses and--

He remembered the first time he saw his brother. The baby was funny-looking, and he didn't make a whole lot of sense. He did strange things, made weird sounds and jerky movements. He had the firmest grip, and Dean remembered the first time Sam held him, little fingers curled around his index finger. Warm and sure, as if the baby was just as sure as he was that they were really onto something here.

The most-off things amused baby Sam, like the yellow star hanging over his head, which he liked more than the _G.I. Joe_ Dean had been so willing to lend him. Maybe he ignored it because he knew Dean didn't _really_ want to give it up yet. And he always laughed at Dean, even if he wasn't doing anything funny.

Dean could not have known Sam any better than he did in that vision. The first time they met, _god_, the first time he touched his brother. The first smile, the winking dimple on his cheek, the first tooth. Dean remembered _exactly_ how he said his first word – the voice, the tone, the accompanying gurgly grin...

He thought he would never smile again, after mom died. But Sam had exclaimed "Dean!" before anything else (sure, it sounded like a bark since the kid probably picked it up from how their dad always snapped at him but what did that matter?), and he felt as if his face was breaking in two. That was Sam's first word, and Dean kept it to himself until Sam said "Dada." Because dad felt bad enough as it was, with their mom dead.

Dean remembered Sam going to school for the first time, glancing behind him at Dean, unsure. Dean raising an eyebrow at him and waving him off, encouraging in his own way. He remembered what Sam was wearing. He remembered how his brother's jacket creased and folded when he squared his shoulders boldly, and Dean remembered the very first step Sam had taken toward the building.

It was, he realized, the very _very_ first step Sam had taken away from him. Because until Sam had gone to school, Dean was always just an arm away. The memory of that first day superimposed itself with that first step toward Stanford. And Sam had looked just as scared and just as brave.

Dean was reintroduced to every single parcel of his brother.

Just before Sam would be wrenched from him.

Like they had taken mom, and they had taken dad. They were going to make him watch every piece of Sam die. The light in his eyes, the fading dimple, the slack mouth, the limbless body--

He was back in Cold Oak.

_No_, he decided.

He'd already found a way to outsmart this goddamn hell-hole. It was he who died there, not Sam. He burned in Kansas, he burned in hell, and he was stabbed in Cold Oak too.

_Pain, like, white-hot..._

_Pain, like, white-hot..._

_Pain, like, white-hot_.

" " "

"My back," Dean gasped, and groaned, "Son-of-a-bitch--"

"What's wrong?" Ruby asked urgently, and he was half-aware of the hands that scrambled for him, blindly in the dark, first feeling his face as if she had followed his voice, and then tracing toward his back. He writhed on the ground, and found he had nothing left in him that was fighting against her misplaced ministrations.

"Dean, I don't feel anything--"

"It's nothing," he growled, after a long moment realizing that the pain was just at the tail end of his nightmare. His nightmare, of what Sam felt before died. He shut his eyes, felt the tears streak down his cheeks. Sam never even felt Dean's arms around his failing body when he called. Sam never even felt him near.

She backed off then, and in the dark, he knew nothing of her other than that her eyes were struggling to stare at him. Dean just lay on his side where he was, echoes of the pain just vanishing. His nose wouldn't stop running, nor his eyes. Crying like a wussy, but they both kept their mouths shut about it.

" " "

Indiana

" " "

_Rag doll_.

_Used, abused, and battered._

_Torn down and patched-up._

_Because it was needed._

_Because it was loved._

_But _god_, you look like a dirty mess._

One moment, Sam was on the ground, clutching his twice-dead brother in his arms, Bobby asking him what the hell did he want to do (let the body stay dead or make it fake-alive, _wow_, they did have a scandalous amount of options. They should have also asked, _burial or cremation_), and the next...

Well, when he blinked and could think straight again, they were in a different room, Dean was on a fresh bed, reattached to machines, lost blood volume replaced, binding link torn into at a nasty, gashed corner to release the dead spirit it encased, slashed veins and wrists sewn and bandaged, and the bloodstains wiped clean from his body.

Looking just like a _rag doll_.

"Well that's it," Brennan said with a weary sigh, and he looked at Sam with some regret, "You ah... you told me I'm supposed to keep the body sort-of alive and you'll figure out what comes back, right?"

"Yeah," Sam winced, asking, "What's he uh... got to come back to?"

_Please, by all means, explain the obvious. He's _dead_..._

Brennan hesitated. He was nervous, knowing he had to be the bearer of bad news and at the same time, knowing full-well that messengers got shot all the time too.

"Right now _nothing_," Brennan said at last, deciding on flat honesty, or maybe there was just nothing else to say about the situation, no diplomacy to save it, no euphemism to cloak it. Which made things worse. Dean was just literally _nothing_, at this point.

"The brain's dead," Brennan continued, "Flat on the EEG. And there is no bodily function that we're not doing for him. I don't know what you think you can pull back, Sam. Even if you could actually do it, I don't know if getting that soul back is going to do anything for this body. He was under a long time. Coming out of brain death is still a mystery to us. I don't know even know if he'll wake up, or at what state. There will be lost functions, at the very least. Or he can just remain like... this. We've done absolutely everything we could, you know that. I'm sorry Sam, I really am."

Sam nodded at him and stepped forward, toward Dean. He drew out Dean's amulet from the folds of his jacket, and squeezed it tight.

"I'm sorry, bro," Sam whispered to his unconscious – _scratch that _, make it comatose or possibly even _95-percent-dead _- brother, except the room was so filled with dead air that he might as well have used a megaphone, since everyone there heard him anyway.

His adroit fingers worked around the tubes and wires, and slipped the amulet securely around Dean's neck. He patted it once, against his brother's chest. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

_I'm coming Dean_, he thought, _I'm gonna find you_.

He opened his eyes...

... and watched the necklace disappear.

He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it would lead him to where his brother was.

_I swear, _he promised, _When I get you out... and you don't want to live like this, I'll let you go. _

_I'll let you go, I will. _

_I promise_.

" " "

Hell

" " "

Dean knew he was in trouble when he emerged from another vision of Cold Oak, breathless and shaking, and felt her hand on his ankle, awkward sure, but making some sort of weird effort to remind him he was not alone.

The touch barely registered.

Like Sam felt nothing when Dean held him as he was dying and _oh god_--

_I think I'm dying_.

The realization brought unexpected tears of regret to his eyes.

_I don't wanna die._

_I don't deserve to go to hell_.

He'd only ever cried for others. For his mom, for his dad, for Sam. He felt sorry for himself often enough, sure, it was just who they were and the situations they were in, sometimes. He grinned. He bore it. He went on. But this, he did not expect. He was losing his mind, he was losing himself, all when he didn't even have much to begin with.

_Blunt instrument._

_They don't need you, not like you need them._

_Worthless..._

_Worthless._

_Worthless since the day you were born_.

He was reintroduced to every piece and parcel of himself.

From the day he was born to that night in New Harmony, he sat through a god's eye's view of his life. He'll never know himself any better than this.

His senses were heightened, in his memories. He felt like a god, seeing everything, knowing everything there was to know about himself. He was seeing himself through indulgent, borrowed eyes. Eyes that lent him every bit of himself, only to take all of them away from him, make the pain last longer, make the loss more compl--

" " "

Lucian opened the door to Dean's cell himself.

With bated breath, Sam peered into the dark, and found Ruby sitting cross-legged on the floor, squinting and blinking up at him, as if the dull, natural light of hell was blinding. Her hand was resting on his brother's ankle, and Dean was lying on his side, his back to the door.

Sam pushed his way forward, and fell to his knees next to his brother, pressing large hands against Dean's shoulder, pushing him to lie down on his back so he could see his face.

_You look like New Harmony all over again_, he thought, shakily. Pale face. Vacant eyes. Just like in New Harmony, as if _you're not here anymore_...

"Dean," Sam said, urgently, shaking him, "Dean. Wake up, damn it."

He pulled his brother close, not caring that he was being seen by demons, or those who were his enemies. Not caring for much of anything at all, except he wanted to know that Dean was still in there somewhere, that he hadn't been too late.

"Dean, please."

He lowered his head against his brother's, and clutched at him tighter.

"Please."

Dean stirred, and emitted a low, guttural sound that Sam had only ever heard once before, back in the lair of that wretched Djinn, that one other time his brother had been taken away from him.

"Good to be home," Dean murmured, his voice a feathery breath on Sam's forearm, and Sam's eyes watered in relief.

"Thought I lost you," Sam said, gruffly, resettling his brother against his chest. He felt Dean shrug against him, not bothering to say, _You almost did._

_But I didn't lose him then_, Sam thought, _And I haven't now._

"Sammy," Dean breathed.

"I'm getting you out of here," Sam told him vehemently. He adjusted his grip, placing Dean's arm over his shoulder before he rose to his feet. Ruby was seated on the floor, looking up at him with eyes that were both haunted and hopeful.

"I want her too," Sam said, to Lucian.

"She was not part of the deal," Lucian told him, easily.

"Lilith being inside my brother's body wasn't either," Sam pointed out, "But I still killed her."

Lucian shrugged, "That was within bounds--"

"There's the letter of an agreement," snapped Sam, "And its spirit. Lilith being inside Dean violated the latter, and you still got what you wanted."

"I forgot you were to become a lawyer," Lucian sighed, melodramatically. But his eyes were alight, still reeling from his victory, and anxious about mobilizing the rest of his plans now that Lilith was dead. He's almost forgotten what _happy_ was like. The magnanimous mood was disarming.

"You know there are many lawyers in hell," Lucian murmured at him, but Sam was in no mood to indulge him, just stared at him darkly.

"Fine," Lucian said, with a casual wave of his hand, "Take the frill. She's just a lot of trouble here. But try not to exorcise her and send her back. I already have my plate full."

Ruby didn't have to be told twice. Nor did she bother to pretend she wasn't relieved, or grateful. For all her cool menace, she did not want to be stuck in a dank cell in hell (_Who did?_). She scrambled to her feet, and grabbed Dean's other arm and slung it over her shoulder too. She looked baffled and uncertain, staring at Sam, before she concentrated on the floor.

He realized it was as much of a "Thank you" as he was going to get, a beat before he tried to think about when the last time she could have said it was, or when was the last time she ever felt grateful for anything in her long, un-dead life.

"Let's go."

" " "

Lucian, like Azazel, ran a tight ship. None of his demons trailed after Sam, Dean and Ruby as they trekked out of the stronghold toward Sam's gate. Theoretically, the level of discipline and organization should have been feared, but at that moment, Sam did not care. His world shrank, when Dean died. Nothing else mattered outside of them getting the hell out of hell.

It wasn't a long walk at all, to his gate; the amulet had led Sam's feet exactly where he needed to go to find his brother. The demons were behaving (he couldn't believe he was thinking that), at least, as best as they could. But he remained antsy and nervous, and Ruby noticed.

"What?" she asked him, quietly.

"What what?" Sam muttered at her irritably, glancing at her over Dean's lolling head.

"You're on edge," she pointed out, "What's going on?"

"I'm not messing around with the deal, if that's what you mean," Sam said.

"Then what?" Ruby asked.

"Nothing," Sam muttered, and just kept on walking. She didn't pry further. She was supposed to be a quick study, after all, and has been hanging around Dean too much.

They walked on.

"You're worse than him," she muttered.

"What?!"

"Nothing."

He sighed, unsure why he should be offended that a demon liked his brother more. But the weird thought made him smile a little bit, thinking about Dean being liked by his enemies. His brother had the weird ability to fit in in most places... or, well, making them fit him, at any rate.

Dean had bashed around with their dad's friends, who all treated him like he was one of the club, talked to him like he was fifty years old, even his dad's cliquish Marine buddies, as if he had been in Vietnam with them or something. He blended in prison, in a bar, hell, even with kids in a playground. He picked up college coeds, suburban soccer moms and bar girls with equal ease.

Sam frowned at his brother's head, chillingly remembering his broken, vacant eyes, looking like he belonged with the un-dead too.

"Maybe you're just indiscriminate," Sam muttered, shifting his grip.

Dean groaned, and jerked, as if physically struck.

"Dean--" Sam exclaimed, when Dean pulled the arm wound around Sam's shoulder toward his face to clutch at his head, unknowingly pulling at Sam's.

"Lie him down," Ruby said, already shifting to do so, "Don't let him ride it too long."

His eyes shot to her, confused but not knowing what else to do. He lowered his writhing and groaning brother to the ground. He looked sick, and... and... _frail_. Moving in painful jerks, strangled, wordless sounds coming from set jaws and a snarling mouth, as if something inside him wanted his mouth open and closed at the same time, warring against itself. His hands were fisted so tight bones and veins bulged.

"I don't know what he sees," Ruby explained, preoccupied as her wiry hands worked on Dean's, prying the fisted digits open, "But I have heard him rant about your mom. Your dad. You."

"Yeah," grimaced Sam. And what else would Dean's hell be but that? Hunger, thirst, incessant pain and torture, he can live with that, he has before. But mom on the _ceiling_, dad in hell, Sam in Cold Oak... that was something else together. This was Dean's hell.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked her, when she grunted, finally able to pry Dean's fingers loose. She grabbed Sam's hand, placed it over the back of Dean's, and pressed both against the amulet on Dean's chest.

"Bring him back," she told him, softly.

And after a beat, the tension gradually left Dean's body, deflating him, limbless on the ground. Sam didn't breathe until Dean's chest rose in a tortured inhale.

"The sooner he's out of here..." she sad, her voice drifting.

He blinked, and nodded. He hesitantly released his older brother's hand, but left it resting against the amulet.

"Come on, tough guy," Sam said with a grunt, as he pulled Dean up by the shoulders, bracing the dead-weight of his brother against the left side of his chest. He put an arm around Dean's back and under his knees, poising to lift him.

"We won't tell anybody, I promise," Sam gabbed, nervous and just anxious to leave, "It'll go faster this way. The demon's strong, but she's kinda short."

"I happen to _like_ this body," she snapped, but spotted him anyway when he rose to his feet with his burden.

"I was just thinking you looked _thin_, bro," Sam chuckled, breathlessly, "Guess I was wrong."

"I think this is karma," Sam said, almost casually as he walked, noting that Ruby stayed unobtrusively behind him, "All those times you had to carry me around. It's not very fair, though, is it? You got to do it when I was a kid. This is hardly the same thing."

"You were fatter then than now," Dean breathed against his brother's shirt, making Sam grin.

"Welcome back, Jerk."

"Took you long enough, Bitch," Dean growled more than a beat delayed, as if this was something he was trying to get re-used to, "Put me down."

There wouldn't have been any arguing with that, so Sam did as he was told, but kept Dean's arm about his shoulder. Dean carried maybe 25 percent of his own weight and everything else he had plied on Sam.

"Lilith's dead?" Dean asked, flatly, as they walked.

"Yeah," Sam said, "And we get a reprieve from invasion 'til 2061."

"Invasion," Dean growled, "'Cos that's exactly what it'll be, Sam, you know that, right? We could have let 'em have a go at each other like the Dems with Obama and Hillary while the Republicans partied. Now... you got just one guy sharp as yellow-eyes, and every demon on his corner."

"It's a long way away, Dean," Sam told him, quietly, not at all feeling guilty about his choice, knowing full well that come hell or highwater, if he could do things over, he'd still do the same thing, "If they can get themselves together, so can we."

"We'd be ancient by then," Dean pointed out, "I feel like... like we're passing it on to someone else or something, this damn war."

"Maybe," Sam conceded, "But maybe it's not supposed to end with us, either."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe we're not the sword to the hilt, bro," Sam said, softly, "Maybe we're just the tip. With every life we save, all these people we bump into with what we do, we change minds, man. That's your army there."

"Megalo-"

"No, Dean," Sam insisted, "I'm serious. I told you, I told you before I needed to feel that it's not just you and me in this and it's not. It's Bobby and Missouri and the Harvelles. It's even the thrice-damned Ghostfacers, I don't know. It's a lot more people besides that."

"It gets dangerous," Dean told him, honestly, "When we start thinking this isn't our responsibility."

"I'm not saying that," said Sam, "All I'm saying is we can start over. _We got time_. _Oceans aren't boiling, frogs aren't raining from the sky? Let's get you your strength back first?_"

"Yeah," Dean snorted, wearily, "Well when I fed you that line, I gotta point out you did nothing for me there."

"Well it's true this time," Sam pointed out, "Besides... this is me."

"So what?"

"When'd you ever say no?" Sam said, triumphantly.

"I say no," Dean muttered indignantly, sounding tired and defeated.

"You wanna get into this Dean, really?" Sam teased him, nudging him a little because he was drifting away again and that made Sam nervous, "You want to subject yourself to the indignity of going into an argument we both know you're gonna lose?"

"I wanna subject to you shutting up," Dean growled at him, though they both knew he didn't mean it, not really. Banter with Sam meant he was almost – if not already – home.

Sam smiled at that, before the look turned wistful, and he was uneasy again.

"What?" Dean asked, sensing the reclaimed tension in his body.

"You really don't," Sam began, quietly, looking ahead at the road before them blankly. The wasteland was familiar, and he knew they were nearing his gate, nearing his secret exit from hell. Strange, how your loves change the way you look at things. Suddenly hell if Dean was there was bad but not-that-bad...

"What?" Dean pressed again, impatient because any negative shift in his younger brother's mood worried him.

"You really don't say no," Sam said, "And sometimes you should."

Dean stopped walking, and wove a little but successfully stayed on his feet when he stepped back from his brother. "Sam?"

Sam averted his eyes.

"Sam?" Dean growled, grabbing his kid brother by the arm, "What? What did you do--"

"No, nothing like your stupid deal or dad's," Sam said, "Nothing like that."

Dean's grip tightened only a little.

"Kinda wish it was," Sam admitted, "'Cos if it was a deal like that, you'd have just shot up awake and be as good as new. Like I did."

"Sam, what are you talking about?" Dean asked.

"You're not doing so good up there, Dean," Sam said, deciding to just get it all out there. It was the fair thing to do, and Dean deserved to know the truth.

"You _died_, Dean," Sam said, voice shaking, "I did everything I could. I did. It's just... I don't know what you'd get back to, Dean, I really don't. The docs say you've lost functions. If you wake up at all. I ah... I didn't know what to do, Dean. I _don't_ know what to do. So ah... I promised I'd get you out of hell and I'm going to. But if you ah... if you don't want to live like that..."

_I'll unplug you myself._

"If you don't want to live like that," he said again, finding he was unable to finish the though, "You just gotta say so."

_I'll let you go._

Dean stared at him, looking scared for a moment, before his expression softened to pensive, and wistful.

To be continued...


	13. Chapter 13

Author:Mirrordance

Title: Home Road

Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.

" " "

Home Road

" " "

13

" " "

Hell

" " "

They walked for a little bit like that, quiet, Dean just mulling over his options. _How bad is it_ being a question he didn't want to ask, especially since he was pretty sure he couldn't hack the answer just yet. And so they walked, Sam understanding the need for a kind-of thinking distance as he talked about random things and Dean thought about what (or rather, what _didn't_) wait for him up in the world of the living.

"Jo's there," Sam was saying, "She's filling out a little. You'd be happy--"

He kept on talking and, Dean thought, almost randomly, _Audition_.

That's what it felt like. Looking at his earnest brother and listening to his nervous rambling took him back to that damned miserable road to Nebraska and Roy LeGrange, and Sam's overcompensations. He just yapped and yapped and yapped, making up for Dean's pensive, exhausted, _terminal_ quiet, filling up the dead air, trying to be strong or trying to be funny, as if Dean staying depended on how likable Sam was.

Dean wasn't unfamiliar with the feeling. God knows it might have even been his frickin' invention. It was what he did for their dad, trying to comfort him and amuse him and be useful to him so that he'd stick around. It was what he did for Sam, after he got that stupid Stanford acceptance letter, or back when Sam was dying and all he could do was beg--

_Why do people keep leaving me behind_, he suddenly wondered, not realizing that he'd said it aloud, until Sam looked at him in this stricken kind of way and Ruby, in the foreground, wisely pretended she wasn't there.

"So what, it's your turn?" Sam asked, sounding kind-of strangled because he was afraid of his brother's choice, and humanly annoyed by the tickling possibility that Dean choosing to die was a kind-of _revenge _to him for always leaving.

Dean didn't answer him, decided he's the hellbound soul and anything that came from his mouth had every right to be spat out.

"'Cos you always let us back in," Sam muttered, after a moment.

Dean's brows rose, and he shrugged. He decided now would be a good time to get this over with since, apparently, there was no escaping harsh topis of conversation anyway.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

Sam took a deep breath, steeling himself. "You want the Disney version?"

"What I pricked my finger and I'm never gonna wake up?"

"Thinking about fairy tales, Dean?" Sam said, with a shaky smile.

"Hanging around you too much," Dean growled, "Maybe I should choose to die before I turn into an over-sized girl like you. No Disney. Gimme some Grimm."

"It'll be more like Phantasmagoria," Sam said softly.

"Whatever."

"When the dogs got to you," Sam said, eyes drifting away towards some hell only he had lived through, "You bled out. The uh... the cause of death was blood-loss."

"I thought I had a body left," Dean pointed out, "What do you mean cause of death?"

"We shoved you medicine up to your eyeballs, bro, did protective hypothermia, put you on a machine," Sam said, "Your... _the_... body's not working on its own, but it's working. You're brain dead though, dude. Not sure if its 'cos it's always been like that--"

"Ha."

"-- Or if it's because your soul's out," Sam continued, "Or because you just didn't get enough air for too long and that's just how its going to be for now on."

"That really blows," Dean whistled.

"You get stats like that," Sam hesitated, "And they don't think you're gonna wake up. Or, if you do, god knows what all that damage has done to your memory, your movement, your speech... not to mention we've tanked you up on everything we could think of and your liver's gonna be whining about that soon, and after that the rest of the organs will follow, if you take too long to wake up."

"I'm gonna be a vegetable," breathed Dean, "And I _hate_ vegetables."

Sammy had that _That's not funny_ look again.

_It's a little funny_...

"So you deserve to know," Sam said, imploringly. "It can be really bad, Dean. It can be as bad as you being inside your own body, just... trapped, lingering until you die. But patients wake up all the time too, and can lead good lives...there's a lot of facilities and programs, and new treatments..."

His voice drifted off, and he just looked at Dean earnestly. Dean recognized the look, knew he himself had worn it more than once before. This was the mouth-disconnected-from-brain-disconnected-from-heart face. Like, after their father died, he was always daring Sam to call him out on the things he felt or how he acted out, even as his eyes begged his brother not to.

_Guess I really did have a hand at raising you, huh, Sammy_?

Because walking beside him, Sam was a confused mass of _It's gonna suck, but stay with me_. _I don't want you to suffer, but don't leave me. It's gonna get bad, but don't say no..._

"So how's that gonna work out?" Dean asked, "If I end up... like that? You'll toss me in a home, right? I mean, I know you'd love to take care of your big brother – feed me, clothe me, shave me, wipe my ass... probably not what yellow-eyes had in mind when he said you were gonna be the lord of the underworld, but life's kinda funny like that sometimes."

"I'll take care of you," Sam said, ignoring the quip, sounding naked and desperate, before he took it back again, "But whatever you want, Dean. Whatever you want."

"I don't want you weighed down by me," Dean admitted, whispers of _They don't need you, not like you need them_ still echoing in his ears, "And I'm... I'm thinking, you know... I've been tired for a long time."

_Like there's a light at the end of the tunnel or something_.

_It's a tough gig... I drew the short straw, end of story._

"Not entirely sure what we got to look forward to anyways," Dean continued, "Rufus, that lonely wacko who told me about Bela? Said he's the best I could look forward to becoming, 'cos this job just fucks people over, you know? There's just always something next, right up 'til the day the job kills you. Whatcha think?"

"He's wrong," Sam said, fervently, said nothing else. He apparently got along Stanford far enough to object and argue, but not to provide substantial evidence.

"What would you do, Sammy?" Dean asked, "What do you think?"

And between the two of them, they knew full-well that whenever Dean asked '_What do you think, Sam?'_ he actually meant '_What do you want, Sam_?'

"I can't choose for you," Sam said, after a long moment, as if he had wrestled with the temptation.

"Sam," Dean snapped, deciding to shelf the euphemism and just go for the kill, "What do you want?"

"I know what I want," Sam retorted, "But I want what you want more, Dean."

"I'm gonna say I want what you want which is what I want which is what you want," groaned Dean, "Just to tide us over the next five damn minutes. I'm not quitting, Sam. So answer the damn question and just tell me what'll it be?"

"_I'm_ not quitting," Sam snapped, "God, Dean, you gotta be a pain-in-the-ass about this too? I told you before, I can hack it, I'm fine. _I don't want you to worry about me, Dean. That's the whole problem in the first place. _I can't make this choice for you. What do you want, Dean? For once in your life--"

Dean bit his tongue, and just stared ahead, trying to find the heart to be annoyed. This was a simple question, wasn't it? He was pretty sure Sam always knew how to answer it.

_What do you want?_

_What do you dream?_

Sam wanted school and normal and picket fences and drop-dead gorgeous chicks who can bake cookies and make pretty blond babies or whatever. Dean just wanted family. Just Sam, and whatever Sam wanted. Sam can't flip it around now and expect him to have an answer, it didn't work like that.

"Stop thinking about mom or dad or me," Sam said, "What do you want, Dean? You just gotta tell me, while you can. I'll do it, I promise."

Again, that mouth-disjointed face, Sam's eyes screaming _Stay with me_ and his trap yakking about something else.

"Let me save your ass for a change," Sam added, more quietly, "I'd do it, whatever it is, Dean. Just tell me what you want."

_What do you want?_

_What do you dream?_

_The dead can do neither._

_What do you want?_

_What do you dream?_

_And even alive he had a hard time thinking about that one._

_What do you want?_

_What do you dream?_

"I don't know, bro," Dean said, voice wavering a little, "I go up there and I'm a mess. And now I'm all fucked up in the head too. There isn't anything left."

And Sam looked crushingly disappointed for a telling moment, making Dean's heart ache.

_I'm gonna take care of you_, he had once told his dying brother, _I gotcha. It's my job, right, watch after my pain-in-the-ass little brother_?

"Is that what you really want?" Sam asked, setting his jaws as if they were made of concrete, trying to be strong, trying to be brave. But he looked like he was five years old, saying one thing and meaning something else altogether.

_I want you to be happy, Sam, _Dean thought, _I don't wanna leave you looking like this._

_And I guess I can want a few things for me too. What do I want? What do I dream...?_

_I want a chance to find out_, he decided.

"Hey Sam," Dean said, "I'm gonna ask you something very important."

Sam's brows furrowed worriedly.

"And this is gonna be the tell, man," Dean said, "This is gonna be the thing that blows the joint, so you'd better not be lying to me."

"What, Dean?" Sam asked, breathlessly.

"Did the damn dogs cut my face?"

--

"What?"

"Did the damn dogs cut my face?" Dean asked, pretending to be obtuse, but his eyes were already dancing and Sam's were just confused and bordering on some sort of hope. Dean watched that hope flourish right before his eyes.

"'Cos there's like," Dean said, "A ton of things we'd never get away with if we were butt-ugly."

--

"Back to Earth, Geek-boy," Dean told him, "Sam--"

He teetered at the force of his brother's choking embrace. Because Sam knew what he had ultimately chosen.

"I'm gonna do this just 'cos you picked me up from hell," Dean said, voice muffled at Sam's shoulder, "And that means I' owe ya."

He returned the hug twice as hard. Sam wasn't gonna tell anybody.

"I got some rules though, bro," Dean said pulling away from his disturbingly quiet brother, "No hunting without me, okay? You gotta promise on this. No hunting until I'm back on my feet. You're not going anywhere I can't drag your sorry ass out of, 'cos I won't be of much use to anybody for awhile, up there."

"But Dean, what if --"

"You saying I won't get back on my feet?" Dean dared him.

"No," Sam gulped, looking trapped, just as Dean intended him to be, "Okay, Dean. Anything you want. I promise. No hunting 'til you're back on your feet."

"And don't keep me around wherever you live or go," Dean said, "Don't look after me. Go back to school, go on dates, I don't know. Just... don't let me hold you back, all right? You're not hunting, so you get to do a lot of other stuff, make damn sure it's stuff you like. Besides, we got a reprieve, right? You get a chance to be somebody again."

"I can't not take care of you, Dean--"

"I know, I know," Dean cut him off, dismissively, "Visit, hang out, whatever. But leave me somewhere there are hot nurses who can look after me, and then go on and do whatever else you can do for yourself, okay? 'Sides... my best chances of getting back on my feet are in like, like--" the word felt foul in his mouth, "Some sort of facility, right? So we gotta go that route."

And of course, he knew that line of reasoning would work on his younger brother.

"Best of all," Dean grinned, wearily, "You get to put me in the path of a Nightingale, bro. I kind of have a feeling I'm gonna end up with a nurse."

"Okay, Dean," Sam breathed, smiling a little, "Okay."

Dean took a deep breath, gulped. Grinned. "Good."

But he was scared. Almost as scared as he had been on the few days before going to hell. This time though, he was wide-eyed scared because he goes back up there and he'd be weak, open, needy like he'd never been before. Ailing and half-dead, his life was going to be entirely in someone else's hands. Every minute, every waking moment. The thought was embarrassing, the thought was downright horrifying. But this was Sam's hands and, if he was gonna fall, it might as well be the Sasquatch catching him, so the landing wouldn't be too hard. Besides... he was broken, he wasn't fool enough not to know that. Busted body, sure, but inside was a grander mess. Like they say, shake your hands with the devil and that shit just. Doesn't. Come. Off. It just doesn't, and he was heavily tainted. Maybe he can't hold himself up, this time. Maybe some help wouldn't be so bad.

"Wouldn't it be funny," Dean said, chuckling quietly, "If you pull me out of here, I eventually die up there, and end up back here anyway? Deal or no."

"No," Sam said, flatly, "You honestly think that you're a bad person?"

"Nah," Dean said, jerking his thumb at Ruby, who was still walking a few paces away and not-looking at them, "I'm a nice guy. Ask her."

She glanced at them, and walked a pace even slower, keeping herself distanced from them. Dean just snickered.

"You're looking better already, you know," Sam said with a small smile, "Maybe you just need me around."

Dean snorted at him, before changing the subject. "Hey dude. Scary thought: Are we actually retiring?"

"Nah, we're just... vacationing," said Sam, "Lucian might be out for the count for a few decades, but there's still some smaller players out there. You'll get better soon, I know it, and then we can just keep doing what we do, if we still feel like it. Nice though... the thought that things from now on will be easier than everything we've gone through."

"Maybe we're getting old," Dean said.

"I'm sure you are," Sam said, smiling slyly.

"That's just mean," Dean told him, "But I won't cry about it or anything. You picked me up from _hell_, bro. I know you love me, even if you don't say anything."

"That's like the pot calling the kettle--"

"Bitch."

Sam looked like he thought about saying more, pointing out that that was actually more Dean's style than his. It would have been an argument he could win. But he let Dean go, _for now_. Because he knew this was a battle that will be waged again, _when_ his brother recovered.

"Jerk," Sam retorted, instead, simply. According to cue.

Dean recognized the concession, and the hope. So he smiled, like he thought he could never smile again.

He knew they were near Sam's gate when his brother's body tensed. He was scared too, but they'd get through it together.

"Hey, Sam."

"What?"

Dean thought spending time in hell was an excellent excuse for getting fucked in the head, so he just stepped on over and gave his stunned brother a bear hug. He felt the tension in Sam's body ease at once.

"What do you owe me that one for?" Sam asked, chuckling as he returned the heartfelt embrace.

"Nothing," Dean admitted, gruffly, "That one's just me. Everything's gonna be fine, bro."

" " "

Indiana

" " "

They were understandably cautious about any change in Dean's body, after that Lilith debacle had his mostly-dead form practically dancing.

Brennan, Alex and Roger jumped when the EEG measuring the electrical activity in Dean's brain spiked aggressively, angry and strong, authoritative and dictatorial, like a victorious fist pumped into the sky, or a hand clawing out of a grave...

They watched, hearts pounding and eyes wide, waiting for something to attack them or kill them or just anything crazy, because that was the first thing they knew to expect now, after everything they've seen over the last few days. But Dean Winchester's eyes remained closed, his body pale and still. But someone was finally home, it seemed, as the aggressive spike gradually leveled down to almost normal levels.

The three medical personnel breathed relief, and looked expectantly at the psychic who was smiling in a sublime, satisfied way.

"They got him back," Missouri declared.

" " "

Bobby pulled an exhausted Sam from the hotly glowing hole on the ground, and his skin felt radiant and hot. There was dry air coming out of the hole in puffs, like a monster's breath, and Bobby didn't want to know anything else about hell but that. _God_, how many men in the world can say they've looked through open doors to hell twice in their lifetimes?

Sam was physically alone, although the air on his right side shimmered and shook, and for a moment, Bobby thought he had felt something familiar walk past him, move beyond him. On Sam's left side was a dark billow of smoke, moving more aggressively away from them. Bobby watched it with a frown, knowing it was that demon frill Ruby, because Sam had told him he intended to let her out too.

"You good?" Bobby asked gruffly, setting Sam on his feet. The two men stood, huffing in the middle of a construction site a few miles away from the house they had made into a temporary base. Ellen and Jo Harvelle were playing lookout with Bobby's truck just outside the property. They carefully picked out the spot where they would make the hellhole; they obviously weren't as wealthy or powerful as Samuel Colt and wouldn't be able to protect it with massive iron lines or complex keys, so they had to be resourceful. The construction site was for a Church, so it was going to be blessed and consecrated; while that did little for the worst demons, it was often enough to hold the minor players at bay and any precaution they could take was taken. The construction frames were made of iron. And the foundation was going to be cemented over in a few days. Unlike Colt, Sam Winchester didn't make a gate he can open or close. He just wanted his brother out, and wanted the damn thing closed forever.

"Yeah," Sam said, a little shakily. Sojourns to hell were rightfully damned tiring. "I got him out. Let's close this thing."

"You sit down a moment and grab back your breath, boy," Bobby said, "I'll get it started."

Sam nodded, and sat heavily down on the flattened soil. He watched blearily, as Bobby dragged a flat, square iron sheet emblazoned with a devil's trap on top of the round hole on the ground. The sheet had small holes lining its sides, and Bobby was beginning to slip improvised, ten-inch long screws into each one in an effort to keep the sheet pressed firmly to the ground when Sam's cellphone, which Bobby hung onto when the younger hunter slipped down to hell _(that sounds funnily casual...),_ rang. Sam scrambled to his feet and caught the phone when Bobby tossed it his way. The older man paused from the work as Sam urgently pressed the phone to his ear.

"Brennan?"

Sam wobbled and sank to his knees, saying "Oh god," making Bobby's blood turn cold. Sam's shaking fingers slipped the phone into his pocket, and he looked up at Bobby with shining eyes, and a damned grin like he was seven years old and life had looked different.

He didn't have to say anything else. Bobby grinned back at him and shook his head in disbelief.

_These damned Winchesters_...

"Off your ass, boy," Bobby growled at him, continuing with the screws. The next thing to do was to juts pile soil over the iron sheet, flatten it to match the rest of the compacted soil, where in a few days, it would be buried under the foundations of steel frames and concrete, "Let's get this done sooner and go see your brother."

"Yes, sir!"

" " "

The truck hadn't even come to a full stop before Sam tore at the doorhandles and hopped out, jogging toward the doors already left open by the teenager who had heard them coming a distance away.

"Thanks," Sam barely acknowledged her, as he pushed past toward Dean's room. Missouri, the two EMT's and the doctor stood at the opening of the door, blocking both entry and view. He gave them a wan smile and maneuvered around them, only to be blocked by Brennan. He shifted, thinking it was a mistake, but was blocked again.

"The hell--"

"Sam," Troy said, "Before you go in, there are some things you should know."

His brows furrowed. "What?" He craned his neck to look over everyone's heads. He couldn't see a lot from where they stood.

"I'll be quick but I need you to pay attention," Troy said, "Okay?"

Sam forcibly wrenched his eyes from the sight of Dean's body. "What?"

"I told you we can see brain activity again," the doctor said, "But that doesn't mean the damage hasn't been done, okay? We uh... we won't know his full condition until he wakes up--"

The statement could have given Sam a heart attack. Brennan couldn't have known it, but Sam's heard that line once before it and nearly killed him back then too, after it was followed by _If he wakes up_.

"--If he w--"

"He's waking up," Sam said, sternly, booking no arguments, "Okay?"

"I know how you feel," Brennan said, and when Sam opened his mouth up to argue, he raised a hand to appease him, "I _do_. I know how it feels to want something so bad and be so certain it's gonna happen. But you have to manage your expectations, okay? If – or _when_- it does happen, it's not going to happen right away, okay? And when it does, it's going to be a long, long road. We have to talk about his options. We have to talk about moving him to a place where there are people who can give him the best possible shot at quality living."

"I understand all of that," Sam said with a quick nod, insisting when the doctor looked skeptical, "I do. But right now I just wanna see him. He needs to know I'm here."

"And then we talk," Brennan said.

"And then we talk," Sam agreed, stepping forward when Brennan finally moved aside. They let him have the room, when he walked toward his brother's bedside. He looked as bad as he did when Sam left; half buried in machines and wires, sallow, sunken, scarred... Sam took Dean's limp hand and held it tightly.

_I can wait_, he thought, _'Cos we've already gone down the road from hell to dead to just-comatose and it'll just keep getting better from here._

_Take as long as you need, bro_, Sam thought, _I can wait._

" " "

Bobby sat with Sam and Troy Brennan on the dining room, both coffee and whiskey in front of them in varying stages of having been drunk and left behind. They've lost track of whose glass or cup was whose, or how much they've drunk of what. They all had a feeling they were celebrating, but there was always a sense of caution and regret belying it.

"Jessie and I have to take off soon," said Brennan, reaching for the coffee, "She's missed some school as it is. And I have to get back to work. All of us do."

"I know," Sam winced, reaching for the whiskey this time. "You've helped us a lot, thank you." He looked like he contemplated apologizing for the circumstances, but decided not to. Can't start apologizing for anything now, that would be like opening a can of worms. For Dean, there was just no stopping, no looking back. He'd done what he'd done, that was why, that was it.

"I can visit, maybe once every few days," Brennan said, "Just to check up on him. But you know how I feel about keeping him here. He needs to be in a place where people can professionally look after him, 24/7. He actually, _actually_ has a chance now, Sam. He deserves the best possible care."

"I know," Sam said, reaching for the coffee, thinking he had to be sober for thinking about this one, "That's what I want too. For now though, we have this place for a couple of weeks and I'm just... I'm trying to figure out how to get him admitted somewhere. I don't have any money, and since it's going to be long-term care, we can't use fraudulent credit that they can trace back to us since we can't run. The last thing he needs right now is a brother behind-bars, who can't look after him."

"Sam, I told you," said Bobby, "I can put up a col--"

"No," Sam said, "There's no way I can pay you back, Bobby. You can loose everything."

"Dean's like a son to me, boy," Bobby said firmly, "Neither of you are in this alone."

"I can get you decent rates," Brennan said, "Say we're related, or something. But he needs a bed, possibly even more surgeries, medicine, a nurse, rehab... a discounted rate can go a long way, but the rest..."

"You think you can run up decent cost estimates for me?" Sam asked.

"I can get you averages from similar cases, sure," Brennan said, "I can even give you a listing of great facilities in the area."

"Good," Sam said with a determined nod.

"Sam--" Bobby began again.

"I said no, Bobby," Sam said flatly, "And that's that."

"You sound just like yer daddy when you say that," Bobby muttered.

Sam smiled at him wanly. "I just couldn't shake him sometimes. You know, Bobby...your house, the yard... feels kind of like home to me too. And especially to Dean. I can't be a part of losing that." He took a deep breath. "The car."

"No!" Bobby exclaimed, "Are you out of your--"

"I know, I know!" Sam retorted, "I just needed someone else to say it."

"Say what?" Brennan asked.

"That it would be crazy to sell the Impala," Sam replied.

"It actually seems like a bright idea," said Brennan, "That car's worth a pretty penny, I can promise you that. And it's not like he's going to be driving it anytime soon."

"It's like giving his kid away while he was asleep," Sam said with a tired, endeared, breathy laugh, "I'm telling you I wish I could, but no. He'll _kill_ me. Push comes to shove, though-- nah. No. _Never_."

"If we just... kind of left him somewhere," Bobby asked, "They gonna take care of him?"

"Yes," Brennan replied, "Without question. But as an abandoned case, he's slated to get the bare minimum that keeps the hospital out of a lawsuit. And they'd be itching to call time of death at anytime you get problems with his heart or brain, which are still possibilities. No resuscitation. And you can't visit."

"He can't not have us near," Sam said firmly, "There's gotta be a way."

"I'll cost you out," Brennan said, getting to his feet, the sway indicating that the whiskey might have outweighed the volume of coffee consumption, "Give me a few hours, so you at least know what you have to work for. Oh, and go online, check out some employment sites or something. Maybe something'll strike, right?"

"Thanks doc," said Sam, watching him leave the room. He looked at Bobby. "What kind of a high-paying job could a ghost like me get, huh? I'm like an illegal immigrant, here, no papers, nothing. Can't work for decent pay, own nothing I can sell..." he paused, as if _struck_.

_Speaking of ghosts, going online and selling things..._

"Hey Bobby," Sam said, eyes alight, "I think I got an idea. I think I got _two._"

"Dean gets this look when you sound like that," the older hunter said cautiously.

"What look?"

"Kind of excited, terrified and proud at the same time," Bobby said with a shrug, "What the hell is on your mind this time, boy?"

"I'm going to New York for a few hours," said Sam, "I'll fly, it'll be faster. Dad has a storage shed there, filled with occult objects. I'll go see if he has anything fairly harmless, or something we can render harmless. Just protective stuff, or antique stuff. Something we can safely cycle back into the world and sell. You can line me up buyers, right?"

"Yeah," Bobby replied with raised brows, "As soon as you tell me what they are. What was the second idea?"

"I'm thinking of sending the _Ghostfacers _into an easy case," Sam said, wryly, "And getting a cut out of this distribution action."

To be concluded in the next chapter...


	14. Chapter 14, Afterword and Preview

Author:Mirrordance

Title: Home Road

Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.

" " "

Home Road

" " "

14

" " "

Indiana

" " "

A Few Months Later

" " "

Brennan hadn't been pussy-footing around when he said the road was going to be long and hard. But as Bobby once told Sam, _The people who love you, the people who believe in you, they got a right to expect impossible things from you_. And Sam was expecting the very best from Dean, and Dean has never let him down before.

Still... there were no magical gasps back into the world of the living this time, no devil deals or _guardian angels watching_, no magical healing touches from _a guy who heals people out of a tent_. It was just a man fighting for the survival of his ailing brother, and a body getting its strength back - 'ordinary,' 'natural' _miracles_, really, just everyday struggles and stories of everyday men.

Once in awhile, Sam found it frustrating that of all the supernatural things around them, the one _everyday_ thing was their human capacity (and occasional _in_capacity) to heal. But still, one took whatever one could, and he fought everyday to give his brother the best possible chance.

A few hundred dollars trickled down to Sam's new bank account once a month, courtesy of the _Ghostfacers _and that new DVD he had given them the material for. They had over-dramatized the simple salt-and-burn, drawn it out, but the group did come out intact and in fact even succeeded, and they had a flair for a kind-of absurd, endearing drama that people were apparently finding endearing and not just tolerable; the checks just kept coming, and was occasionally, surprisingly large. They've been ragging on him for a new case ever since, and he's been sifting out jobs for them; not very many was ever easy in their line of work, so mostly he's been giving jobs to Bobby's more seasoned network of hunters, but the _Ghostfacers_ were, weirdly enough now, well-entrenched into Sam's consideration set both as a means for income and as a legitimate solution to hunting issues.

His_ Ghostfacers_ consultant's incomewas enough for smaller living expenses like utilities, food, clothing and vices like candy, or weird trinkets he would put on Dean out of fun (_like the Hannah Montana wristband he was presently bound to_) just because. The finances for Dean's recovery he had raised from proceeds stemming from the sale of some of his father's things, like some replaceable (at least in terms of function) antique weapons, a few protective charms and amulets, nothing dangerous or controversial or morally questionable. He even had funds enough to rent a modest apartment near the extended-care facility where he had entrusted his brother's care. He spent his days living around Dean's visiting hours, and spent the rest of the time studying short courses in a nearby local college, just trying to get the feel of possibly going back to school on a more extended period.

In his visits, Sam would bring in a miscellany of memorabilia documenting his curious life without Dean, and would tape them to his hospital room walls. His life wasn't like it had been when Dean was dead in that sick world of the Trickster's. It was just-as filled with longing for his brother's companionship and well-being, sure. But it didn't feel as lonely, and hardly as dark. It didn't feel like a _dead-end. _It was hopeful, and life-filled, not driven by revenge and death. Soon, Dean's walls looked like their's or their dad's when they were projecting a case except this time, the project was Sam's life.

"First honest-to-goodness phone number," he had grinned, manically, raising up the tissue paper where the number was scrawled. The girl had been very hot and intelligent, looked like Sam's WASP-y archetype. He taped that to the wall, and taped the receipt for the coffee they had together shortly afterwards.

"Check this out," he said, pinning his first _Ghostfacers_ paystub on the wall on another day, "They didn't do so bad and they came out alive."

"Bro, look," he said another time, pinning a copy of his apartment lease agreement, "I'm stuck here for a year."

He pinned his standard-excellent school records from his short courses, certificates of completion and merit. He pinned a photo of a mangled baked pasta dish that he had learned to cook ("Dean, it looks like shit but it's really good, not that you've ever been picky.")...

Dean met his brother halfway finally and just opened his eyes one day, slow and indulgent, pretty-as-you-please, and would stay that way for hours at a time. He was not all there, not by a long shot; the gaze was hazy and empty, could have been closed for all the awareness registered in them, like a newborn child's, but they were open, and it was a fair enough start. In Sam's mind, this was his brother making the first step into reconnecting with the world. The eyes were the window to the soul, and though still veiled, Dean's were there again after what felt like forever.

Brennan dropped by every few days as promised, doing his routine checks. Bobby visited at least once a week to see how Dean was doing and to help Sam with all his financial activities. Missouri and the Harvelles couldn't travel as much, but would keep Sam and Dean company for hours whenever they could visit.

Dean's body had withered some, unavoidably. He was thin, and sunken, and was seemingly _shrinking_, as his muscles began to suffer from not being used, despite the exercises done for him by the nurses. They avoided the most major threats stemming from his prolonged confinement though, like bed sores and infections, or pneumonia. His organs also began to recover from the strain of the drugs and machinery they gradually weaned Dean from, and soon, he was extubated and breathing on his own.

The milestones came slowly, but surely, for both of them. As Sam's life-wall expanded alongside his achievements, Dean's eyes suddenly looked full and aware one evening, and Sam could tell the difference right away, the very _moment_ the change occurred, and he held Dean's weary but unquestionably _present_ stare with tear-filled eyes.

"Hey, hey," Sam breathed, grabbing his forearm, clinging tight. Dean didn't stay awake long, apparently couldn't say a thing, but he was undeniably back, and Sam had a feeling that with Dean's insatiable presence, everything was going to start moving much faster now--

Dean's fingers twitched, but Sam saw the minuscule movement easily as if it were a scream and a shout, and he reached for his brother's hand hungrily. His older brother's stiff fingers curled weakly against his. There was barely any control there, but that was okay; it was a fair start, and Sam could carry them the rest of the way now.

" " "

His eyes stayed open and aware for hours at a time, watching everything going around him with caution and curiosity. He was too weak yet to speak, but his eyes were deep with comprehension, he was responsive, and even the neurologist who came in to see him said he had an excellent chance at recovering fully.

It did not take Sam to realize, though, that while a soul can (sometimes) be taken out of hell, the hell cannot completely be taken out of the soul.

The nightmares started coming as soon as the awareness came. It was as if Dean reclaiming himself inextricably included the darkness that had become a part of him.

Late one night, Sam got an urgent call from the hospital, telling him to come over. Dean had woken up harshly from a nightmare, and they needed him there to calm his brother, or else they'd have to sedate him, which they did not want to have to do in his barely-recovered condition.

He burst into his brother's room and found him breathing hard, lying on his side, staring at the window listlessly as tears fell freely from his haunted eyes.

"Sam-" Dean's nurse, a beautiful redhead named Diane appeared by the door, apparently having just heard that Sam had arrived and wanting to brief him. But she did not have to; _Bring him back_ was part of Sam's job description now, he's known that for awhile.

"I'll take care of it," he murmured at her, distractedly. She nodded and left the brothers alone, as Sam sat on his usual chair by Dean's view.

"Hey," he greeted his brother with a tentative smile, putting a calming hand to Dean's, and curving his brother's fingers right over the amulet resting on Dean's chest, "Hey."

The emptily staring eyes drifted toward his, shined all the brighter for a moment, in what looked like relief.

"Sammy," came the hoarse whisper.

Dean's first word in _this_ life, broken-sounding because the life-saving tubes that had run down his throat had done it's share of damage too.

"Yeah," Sam said with an assuring smile, "That's me. I'm right here. You're okay."

Dean blinked at him and nodded, and let his eyes drift close, as he fell back to sleep.

" " "

Many days ended like that, in nightmares and assurances and exhausted sleeping, especially after Sam got a special pass, courtesy of the resident shrink in the facility who had recommended that Sam be allowed in on all hours for the improvement of the patient. He was very, _very_ eager to get his hands on Dean, as soon as the speech therapist cleared him for talking. In the meantime, words would come out more and more, as its bearer gained more and more strength.

"Sammy," had lengthened to "Thought you were dead," which soon expanded to "I knew you weren't, but I keep seeing..."

In those strange hours was the only time Dean was disarmed enough to clue Sam in about the things he had seen in hell. Sometimes, he would wake up, urgently saying his stomach was bleeding, or that he was burning, or that his back hurt and that the pain was _white hot_. It didn't take Sam too long to realize how familiar these things were, and whose deaths Dean was reliving.

That was Dean's hell, the deaths of his family. The rest of the day, though... he worked on raising his own.

He made friends oddly easily, even without much use of his still-scarred voice. He pioneered the (_now-banned_) Hallway Wheelchair Races, wherein he and his manual wheelchair raced alongside the octogenarians with their fancy motorized chairs with _fricking_ baskets.

He was found passed out in the gym one morning, where it was discovered he'd been spending some non-regulation hours trying to gain back his strength and mobility, not to mention to distract himself from the nightly nightmares he knew would be coming. They confiscated his wheelchair every night before he went to bed to avoid such a stunt in the future.

Sam still dropped by a good number of hours each day, updating his life-wall and adding Dean's own achievements. One morning, he caught Dean up on miserably-shaking legs, arms strained and braced against the back of a seat as he peered closely and frowned at the items on the wall.

"The hell, Sam?" Dean growled, nodding jerkily at the profoundly amateurish finger-painting of a vase of flowers with his name written on a shaky scrawl on the upper-right corner.

"I got it from your art therapy class," Sam said with a shrug, "It's nice."

"Take down," Dean told him irritably, cutting back on as many words as he could so as to keep his throat from hurting, "Stupid I had to do in first place and now I gotta look it every day? 'm not five."

"It was hard getting back the strength in your hands, Dean," Sam sighed, "I'm glad it's up there 'cos it shows how well you're improving, right?"

"What next, _origami_?" Dean snapped, "Cross stitching?"

"I wish they did your speech therapy last," Sam grinned at his brother cheekily, "Rest your voice, Dean. The artwork stays. Such as it is."

Dean just glared at him, and accepted his help back to bed. A week later, Sam entered the room, then stared at the wall with mouth agape. It was crowded with white sheets of paper signed by _Linda, Gerry, Harold, Janice_ and a few other of Dean's older companions in the facility, of drawings all labeled "Sam." Apparently, at Dean's suggestion, the most recent art class had focused on a human subject whom everyone in the home was familiar with, since he visited everyday. He flushed slightly in embarrassment, noting that the drawings all focused on his most apparent attributes: height, shagging hair and an abundance of bulky jackets and striped polos.

"You must be proud of yourself," Sam told his smug brother, dryly.

"I think Gerry got best," Dean said, brows raised.

Sam glanced at the old man's portrait of him. It looked like the portrayal of an urban homeless man. Stooped shoulders, over-sized clothes, more hair than face.

"Right," Sam snorted.

" " "

_You can take the boy outta hell but you can't take the hell outta the boy_.

It didn't take him too long to figure that out.

The nights were a bitch, and he set aside his pride for awhile and let them give his kid brother a pass to come see him whenever it got bad, let Sam take care of him. Sam's gone to hell and back for him for crying out loud, a short walk to the hospital from his apartment shouldn't be so bad, right? 'Sides, it was a safe neighborhood, he had asked Bobby to check, and it was fairly safe running around there at night.

Still, if he could keep the screaming and the crying to a minimum he was good, they didn't need to bother Sam anymore. Besides, it also didn't take his psychotic shrink too long to revoke Sam's nightly passes; as soon as he could talk, Sam's nightly privileges were taken away to force Dean to talk to the irritatingly calm son-of-a-bitch instead. So far, he's been keeping his mouth shut; whatever he had to say was gonna get him in a straight-jacket. Lately though, he's been debating making up something soap-operatic, just to get the dude off his back.

The nightmares came at night, in his sleep. As it had been in hell, they cycled around his mom on the ceiling, his dad on the ground, Sam on his knees, and then Dean taking over all their roles of victims and grievers. He woke up thinking he was bleeding from the stomach, burning in hell, stabbed in the back. He woke up knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was all alone. He woke up screaming and crying and not caring, because he was alone, before the rest of the world would descend on him, crashing, light from overhead snapped open, nurses and doctors in white rushing in, white sheets, white curtains, his white clothes, and the only things that made sense, his amulet in his hands and the wacky wall on his line of sight, shouting out life, and family, and friendship.

When he was alone at night and knew that the nightmares would soon start, he would struggle to remain awake and sit in front of that wall and stare at it, hours on end, trying to convince himself that he couldn't have all of those and be alone and nothing and hurting and dying, could he?

Sometimes, the sun would rise and find him sitting there, staring. And he would shakily drag himself back to bed, sleep at last, knowing Sam was coming soon, and that though the nightmares can break him in his sleep, it wouldn't take his brother long to appear in his line of vision, and show him everything was all right again.

" " "

"I had a long talk with Brennan," Sam told Bobby over coffee at the shop across from the facility, "He's been putting together how things look for Dean."

The two hunters had settled at the shop the way they've been doing the last few times they visited Dean together, because he was always asleep and exhausted lately.

"You don't sound happy," Bobby pointed out.

"I asked him why Dean looks worse and not better," Sam said, grimacing over the too-hot coffee, "Lately it's like he's just always asleep whenever we're here."

"What did the doc say?"

"Damn nightmares are keeping him up," Sam said, "They said he refuses to sleep at night. He was open to getting sleeping aids after awhile, anything to make it better. But the dreams didn't go away, and the pills just kept him under longer, making him unable to pull himself out. That first dose nearly killed him, they said, he just couldn't breathe and couldn't wake up. They haven't put him on them since, and because he sleeps in the day, all his therapy's stalled."

"What are they gonna do about it?"

"They're definitely letting me back in at night," said Sam, "So that's one. Maybe he'll sleep, just so's he can get back to working out in the day. Once he's stronger, I want to get him out of here, you know. Get him back in his car, go to the Grand Canyon or something,_ anything_, to get his mind on other things.Brennan said his body can probably handle it in a few more weeks. He's healing all right, but he'll never be the same as before."

"What do you mean?" Bobby asked.

"There was some organ damage," Sam said, "The drugs, you know. Nothing fatal, thank god. But he's not gonna be scaling walls and digging graves without consequences."

"And the rest of him?"

"I don't know," Sam sighed, "I mean, he's reacting exactly how a guy pulled out of hell should, right? The nightmares, the trauma... it's just that the shrink keeps telling me the most assuring thing for Dean right now is for me to assure him everything's fine by going back to his normal situation. I'm definitely not going to let him hunt, but on the road with me is about as normal as we get."

"Then I guess that's how it's gotta be," Bobby agreed, looking at Sam closely, "But are you good with that?"

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, "Of course I'm good with that."

"You're digging in roots here, kid," said Bobby, "You got that lease--"

"Expires in two months," Sam pointed out.

"--Been going to school--"

"Certificate courses," Sam said, "I'll take fast tracks, I can be done by the time Dean's ready to leave. And before you say it, no serious girls, all right?"

"I'm not talking about function, boy," Bobby growled, "I'm talking about what you want. 'Cos Dean sure as hell's gonna know if you're not happy about pulling out roots again. And he's gonna hate it, and he's gonna try and make up for it, and he's not gonna get better any sooner, and that's just no good for anybody."

"I want what he wants which is what I want which is what he wants," Sam said with a dry look, and there was a private joke Bobby couldn't catch just yet, "Would you believe me if I told you I might have had this conversation before?"

"Between the two of you," Bobby sighed, "Hell yeah." He hesitated for a long moment, "Wasn't always that way though."

"What do you mean?"

Bobby smiled at him tightly, "Now I'm not sayin' you didn't love your brother, or loved him less, or didn't care about what he wanted. But before you went to college, you've always known what _you_ wanted, and moved heaven and earth and even your father and brother to get it. Dean caves in all the time."

"So what are you saying?" Sam asked.

"I'm saying you've changed," Bobby said, simply, "And maybe he has too. Maybe he'll let _you_ cave this time, huh? Let you help, let you catch him. And when he's all better... you can both figure out how to live with each other."

"Hard to teach an old dog new tricks," Sam said with a small smile, inexplicably relieved by the thought, "And Dean's as stubborn as they come. But...you're right. Maybe."

" " "

The nurse told Bobby that Dean wormed his way out of his scheduled psych therapy, saying he felt a little bit ill. The news made him suspicious; Dean would say anything to get out of a shrink's office. Still... given the last few months, and the undeniable fragility he still radiated even after he regained the use of his motor mouth, Bobby walked faster toward Dean's room, worriedly.

"Hey Bobby," Dean greeted him with a weary smile, but then lately that's all he ever looked like.

"Nurse said you were sick," Bobby said, stepping into the room and shaking Dean's proffered hand warmly.

"Shoulda let her finish," Dean said with a more characteristic smirk, "Sick of therapy."

"Still getting nightmares?"

"Sam's got a big mouth."

Bobby started to say something in defense of that, but Dean raised up his hand and waved away the issue, saying, "Never mind, I know, I know. He's gotta talk to someone. I'm sorry, Bobby. You _are_ family. It's just... I don't know."

Bobby commandeered the chair beside Dean's bed, the one that belonged to Sam. He had a weathered manila envelope on him, something he handed over to Dean.

"Remember that?"

"How could I forget," Dean said, opening it gingerly and peering at the contents.

"It's all there," Bobby assured him, "Decided to bring it over now, while Sam's still in class. I wasn't sure you ever told him about it. It's untouched. I never had the chance to give it to Sam, when you were away."

Dean drew out the battered registration to the Impala, and he looked wistful, remembering the time a few hours before his death that he had given it to Bobby to give to his brother, for when it was all over and he was gone. To do with as he pleased. Slipped inside was a note, care instructions interspersed with Dean's thoughts and thanks and apologies and wishes.

Bobby watched his face, saw the thoughts race across his eyes: fear of those last hours, worry for the brother he was leaving behind, trust in this man to look out for Sam in his stead.

"I couldn't do it," Bobby said, "Couldn't give it to him, not when he was trying so hard to keep you around. 'Sides... he woulda cut me. It would've looked like we were giving up."

Dean's lips curved upward. "Yeah. 's why I had you do it, and not me. Thanks, Bobby. You know," he chuckled, "If you gave it to him, he'd be giving me hell about how it was _his_ car now, just to rile me up. Good call."

"There was no reasoning with him when you were away, Dean," Bobby said, shifting a little, "He was just so sure he was gonna get you back, and that was that. He held civvies at gunpoint, threatened kids, endangered those idiot _Ghostfacers_... he wasn't gonna stop for anything."

"He didn't tell me about that," Dean's eyes clouded, and he subconsciously wrung his wrists at the scars there, "Lots of things he doesn't tell me about. I guess it's a good time to be slinking to normal then."

"Yeah," Bobby agreed, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dean also understood that this time of recovery belonged as much to Sam too, "Give him time. You both got that now, right?"

"I guess," Dean said, pausing, "I'm glad you were there for him, Bobby. Really. It easily coulda gone all sorts of wrong."

"Barely had to do anything," Bobby said with a grunt. He was about as comfortable receiving thanks as Dean was in giving it. Still, Dean was getting better and better at saying thanks to him, and he could get better about receiving them too. As he told Sam, they were all changing.

"So what?" Bobby asked, "We gonna be seeing you on your feet soon?"

"I don't know," Dean said, "I think they're trying to do that last, to keep me in here. I got a shrink, I got a brain doctor, I got a nurse, I got a speech therapist, I got a counselor guy, a diet guy, a drug guy and a general guy. But my PT's been a bitch about the legs, man. Wouldn't be surprised if this is all Sam's fault."

"You gotta let them get you better," Bobby said, simply, "And that's just that."

"I know," Dean said, shrugging, "I'm not crazy. I know I'm fucked, and Sam's gonna be the one getting the shit-end of that stick if I continue being fucked so it's just what it is."

"You got a foul mouth."

"It's a foul situation," Dean grinned, before his look softened, "Hey, Bobby... any of you ever heard from that Ruby chick?"

"She got out, 's all I can say," Bobby answered.

"Flash of light?"

"Hm?"

"In a kind of light?" Dean asked.

"Nah," Bobby replied, "Black cloud outta hell, just like the rest of 'em. She's out here, somewhere."

"Hm," Dean said, thoughtfully, before saying, "Hey Bobby."

"What?"

"Ever been to the Grand Canyon?" Dean asked, "Soon as I'm good to go out of here, Sam promised."

"Sounds good," Bobby said with a nod, "Then you boys come see me, stay a bit longer, huh? Got a few beauties that can use your hands."

"You gonna pay me?" Dean asked, wiggling his brows.

"If you don't mess it up," Bobby retorted, "Should give you two time to figure out what you wanna do with yourselves now that you're, you know, old and retired."

"You're old," Dean pointed out, grinning, "Sounds good, man. Thanks."

" " "

She visited the day before he was set to leave.

Functionally mobile but still wheelchair-bound in a final show of good behavior to ensure that his next-day check-out would not be revoked by his army of doctors or, the strictest of them all, his uptight younger brother, he sat on a far corner of the manicured grounds, just looking over the small rolling hills of the gardens, thoughtfully. He was thinking about leaving the safety of the place, leaving the good people he'd probably never see again, about going back out the rest of the world.

He thought about his future; odd, to actually have one, now. To find that for the first time in a long time, he wasn't running away from or chasing after anything. Wasn't looking for dad, wasn't hunting down his mother's killer, wasn't worrying about Sam's destiny, wasn't trying to duck out of hell. He was kind of just... alive, and it felt very wide open and fearful, in that bungee-jump kind of way, terrifyingly, mind-numbingly freeing.

He felt her come up behind him then, all casual-like, 'cos she wasn't trying to hide or anything like that.

"Nice wheels," Ruby commented, lightly nudging the wheelchair with the tip of her boot.

"Watch the merchandise, honey," Dean told her, wryly, looking up. She had apparently recovered that same body from the morgue back in New Harmony.

"You get easily attached to things that roll around," she said, sitting down on the grass next to his arm, stretching her legs out in front of her, indulgently, "Nice view too. You've been cushy out here, huh?"

"Waldorf-Astoria?" he asked.

"Compared to where you've been?" she snorted, "I guess so."

"Hey, Sam's taking me to the Grand Canyon," Dean bragged.

"Yeah?"

"Tomorrow," Dean said, "I'm outta here tomorrow."

"Maybe he'll push you on your wheelchair over the rocks," she said, brows raised.

"Why so snide?" he asked her, pretending offense, "And I'm the one who's supposed to be upset, it took you this long to visit."

"I've been around," she said, waving her hand vaguely, "Got this meatsuit back the moment I got out. They kept her shut out in the morgue. Kinda gross, but I didn't think _God_-or-whomever will be too pleased with me if I took over someone alive again. If I'm gonna animate a corpse I might as well get this one."

"_God-or-whomever_?"

"We're trying to get into the white light, remember?" she rolled her eyes and motioned at him, "That's also why I'm visiting the goddamn sick. There's this list of good deeds or something."

"The Ten Commandments?" he asked, brows furrowing in thought.

"No, something about something-attitudes," she replied, "I forget. So. The Grand Canyon, huh? Well, well. Good for you."

"I can't hunt yet," he said, shifting uncomfortably, a little embarrassed.

"And you shouldn't have to," she told him, "Lucian'll stand by his word, I can guarantee you that. No trouble from him 'til 2061. He'll be damned good by then, but that's some time away and maybe the rest of us will be better too. There's still the bit-players, of course, but those can wait or be taken care of by others. Your brother, I don't know if he told you this, but he told me that there are many people fighting this war. But you're all he's got and he's all you got. The world shouldn't all depend on the things you do, and times like these come and you just gotta take care of yourselves first."

"_I _told him that," Dean said with a small grin. He told Sam that a few hours after he got him back from the dead, and that was not a great memory at all, but at least...

_Remember what I taught you_...

"He's got a thick skull," Dean added, "So it's nice to see he actually retains anything."

She shrugged, "But you're going back to hunting?"

"I don't know," Dean admitted, "I'm not sure I know to do anything else. But I'm also not fool enough to know it won't be for awhile, and by that time I won't be at the same level as before. They told me I've busted up some things real bad it's practically like I'm an old man in here. I mean, not as old as you--"

"Ha, ha," she said, dryly, "What did Sam say?"

"We haven't talked about hunting, actually," Dean realized, "I think he thinks it might piss me off, not to be able to go back and do the same things anymore."

"Are you pissed off?"

"I think I should be," he admitted, "I think I will be sometimes. But I'm alive, my brother's alive, we've staved off the baddies for decades, my dad's in the light, my mom's killer is dead... It's actually a pretty solid checklist."

"Plus, you're going to the Canyon," she pointed out, good-naturedly.

"Right on," he agreed, "In my hot car. 'Sides... maybe this way, Sam can go back to school, you know, do the stuff he's always wanted to do."

She looked wistfully out at the grounds.

"I'm uh..." he hesitated, scratching the back of his neck, "Kinda excited too, actually. Who am I gonna be."

"Who'd you want?" she asked.

"Haven't figured that yet," he said, "But Ill get it."

"I bet," she said, quietly, "Say... you can probably throw some jobs at me."

"Yeah?"

"You got humans on hell's side," she said, "Maybe you can use someone like me out here for the small jobs. Especially since, you know, the Great, Glittering Winchesters are on the bench."

"Still chasing after the light?"

"Always," she said, gravely, before adding, "I don't want to have been nice to you for nothing."

"I'm good company," he argued.

She didn't indulge him, just stared him down until he sighed.

"Yeah, yeah," he said, "We'll keep you in mind. You're gonna be sick of us sending you out to jobs. A full-on ex-witch demon, battling a little chuppacabra or knee-deep in mud on a rainy salt and burn, things like that. You'd be pissed as hell after awhile."

"Yeah, I heard the road to heaven really sucks."

"Find a friend," Dean suggested, wryly, "Drag him around. It'll be more fun that way."

" " "

Check-out was not the uneventful, quiet exit Dean had expected. After he and Sam boxed up the memorabilia from his room wall, they sent him off with pomp and punch, and he realized he could learn to expect bigger things, better things, grander things, now.

They sent him off with a bang, good food and great wishes and happy old people and pretty nurses, and relieved doctors and he really, _really_ thought he was gonna be a wuss about it and start weeping right then and there. His younger brother was grinning like a doofus and Sam, well _he_ lost it, all gooey-eyes and tear-streaks as he pushed his older brother's wheelchair toward the Impala waiting at the rotunda. This was as much his road as it was Dean's, after all, and they were almost home.

"Ready, bro?" Sam asked, parking the wheelchair right by the open passenger's side door.

"Been ready for months, Sammy," Dean grinned, slapping on the arm rests enthusiastically and rising up on his own, as Sam unsurprisingly spotted him. He gave his facility-friends a cheery, drunken wave, as Sam pushed the wheelchair toward a waiting orderly, out of the way of the car.

Dean slid into the seat and waved Sam away as he closed his own door. Sam watched him settle, before jogging to the driver's side.

Dean breathed in the scent of the car, closed his eyes in pleasure as the engine started and the road rumbled beneath him. He opened them again and glanced at his brother, who was hastily wiping at his eyes and focusing on the road ahead, a small smile still lodged on his lips.

The two of them and the car and a long road...

"Like old times, huh?" Dean asked him.

"Better," Sam said, grinning. They were both in unquestionably high spirits, "You good so far? You want some water? You want some snacks? Doc said you might have trouble with the motion so I also got you--"

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean assured him, "Really."

"You cold?" Sam asked, "Hot? Want a pillow--"

"Good god," Dean breathed, exaggerating his awe, "This _is_ gonna be a long damned road."

"Well we haven't been--" Sam hesitated, "I just wanted to be sure--"

"I'm good, Sammy," Dean said, "Really. I'm sure you have everything down. Relax, bro, I'm not gonna fricking melt."

"But you'll tell me if--"

"I will."

"You're lying--"

"It's not lying if I don't tell you 'cos I'm sure you'd know," Dean told him, "Right? 'Cos you always know, okay? So relax, bro."

"Okay," Sam breathed, focusing on his driving, "I can do that."

"I doubt it," said Dean, wryly, "But I'd love to see you try."

Sam smiled slightly at that, "You're not gonna love it if I fail, 'cos I'm gonna end up pestering you."

"Well you're gonna hate me when I'm pestered," Dean guaranteed him, "So be a smart guy, and just nip this at the bud, right? Just. Fricking. Relax."

"_You_ shoulda been a lawyer," Sam teased.

"I shoulda been many things," Dean told him.

"You can now," Sam said, turning serious.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, matching his mood, "I guess I can."

That was weirder than anything else, actually. He didn't think he'd make it at all, much less be... more-or-less whole. He still had a busted body and a fucked-up head, but he was getting better, he was. Against all odds, both he and Sam, right now, were back on the road, back in the car, back together, back home.

"You too," Dean added, cheerfully.

"Weird, huh?"

"But it's all right," Dean said, smiling, reaching for the car radio, "I'm gonna go put something on."

THE END

August 11, 2008

" " "

**AFTERWORD**

" " "

**Contents**

**I. The Ending and an Alternate Ending**

**II. The Mythology of **_**Home Road**_

**a. Halley's Comet**

**b. Colt's Gun and Gate**

**c. The Amulet**

**III. The Characters**

**a. The Darker Side of Sammy**

**b. Dean's Hell**

**c. Ruby and the Gamble of Kripke's Female Characters **

**d. Bobby and the Company**

**e. The Original Characters**

**IV. Massive Thanks and Replies**

**V. Next Project: **_**The Least I Can Do**_

I. The Ending and an Alternate Ending

There actually is an **alternate ending** that I obviously eventually scratched. In a nutshell: Ruby hadn't been part of the deal Sam made with Lucian, so Lucian tells Sam he'll set her free if Sam gives up his powers. The only way to do that is to give it up to the Watcher and exchange it for an answer to any question he might have. Sam abides by his promise to take care of Ruby if she looks after Dean, and does give up his powers. But he twists it around to his advantage by asking the Watcher how to defeat Lucian in the end. The Watcher tells him that by setting Ruby free, he already has, and I figured the next Halley sighting will find Sam old and probably not able to defeat Lucian, but the un-dead Ruby can.

I scrapped this ending maybe because I was lazy, haha, or maybe I didn't like how it veered too much toward the arc and not as much on the brotherly drama. The story was supposed to close-in on how nothing else mattered without each other, that these boys were willing to tear down everything in their way to save each other, and shoving this part into the tale felt misplaced. It was a fun thought while it lasted, but that's all that it was.

Now **the actual ending** I found more intriguing, at least from the family / drama perspective. I'm kind of new to this fandom still, but I pick up snatches of people wondering **what would eventually push the brothers to retire from the hunt**. I figured the answer would be a combination of **(1) physical incapacity**; and **(2) lessening of responsibilities** stemming from, in this case, having a community of fighters and a time of actual peace. _Home Road_ puts all these together in that the boys can quit (at least for awhile, haha) as Dean recovers, and they can afford the time because they have allies and are in the middle of a truce. I liked the open feeling of the ending, that they could have lives beyond hunting if they wanted, or that there was a kind of reprieve from the dark themes of their lives. At the same time, the ending closes the previous loose ends: season two ended the life of their mother's killer and freed their father from hell. _**Home Road**_** ends Dean's deal and Sam's responsibilities to the world.** If they'd ever have a shot at a normal life, haha, the end of _Home Road_ allows that.

The whole ability to have a **second shot at life** was fascinating to me too, particularly because I liked the **role reversal** of the brothers. This time, it was Sam remembering Dean's first word, the milestones in his life, carrying him away from a fire... everything Dean had once done for him.

The **title **_**Home Road**_** also has a double-meaning** in terms of talking about the ending of this story. The first meaning is that the story chronicles the **road out of hell**, like, this is the road _going_ home. The second, likely less-apparent meaning is that **the road **_**is**_** home**, like the word "home" is an adjective to the noun, "road." The story, after all, ends openly and on the road, the road that is familiar to them, which is where their home mostly was.

II. The Mythology of _Home Road_

**a. Halley's Comet**

I wondered what the relevance was, for it to be mentioned in _Supernatural_ that the Colt and bullets were made during the regular run of Halley's Comet. I looked it up, about how comets were traditionally perceived as the precursor of a lot of natural and social tragedies across history (volcanic explosions, flood, wars and, as also mentioned in_ Supernatural_, the Alamo).Literature on this is mapped all across the Internet - focusing on its fallacy, of course, but still very interesting.

The view that fascinated me most, though, was the idea that it signaled the beginning of wars, because they looked like the swords of gods. So I guess that's the thought I latched onto; when Colt made the gun and the bullets, it signaled the beginning of a war between good and evil, reminiscent of what Meg said to John in the episode _Salvation_: "We know you have the gun... as far as we're concerned, you've just declared war."

**b. Colt's Gun and Gate**

After I linked the power to the comet, I then wondered about (1) how Colt could have known about the supernatural world and (2)the relevance of the 13 bullets. I guess it's kind of a cop-out but I just shoved in a foreigner with knowledge of ancient magic (it felt kind of right, at least in terms of the level of old world mysticism assigned to foreign cultures at the time of Colt) into his workforce and thought that guy could be the link to how he knew about this world. It was also fun thinking that the very exact number of bullets – 13 – must correspond to 13 nasty demons. Originally, _Home Road_ was supposed to be a larger myth-arc, and one of the 13 bullets were meant to be for Azazel's heir; Sam. But I got tired off that arc and thought I'd just focus on Sam fighting to get his brother back and letting nothing stop him, instead of infusing the usual conflict of him going dark-side.

**c. The Amulet**

That darn necklace, haha... _A Very Supernatural Christmas_ gave us the family-oriented origin but since I was going crazy with the myths I thought I might as well have fun with this too. I thought Bobby wouldn't give the kids anything risky so it might have just started as a toy, but the boys assigned so much importance on that thing that it just evolved, kind of like that house in _Hell House_. I tried searching online though, for any traditional god or creature that had similar features. I only found dissected similarities with masks from African, North American and even Asian art, though. But no one really knows where Kripke picks up his pop-culture genius writers and artists and where else they pick up inspiration from. Maybe the amulet really does just depict the half-bull god, like the general consensus goes. It's fun to think of it as powerful because of belief, though, like a little supernatural contribution of the Winchesters to the supernatural world. Besides, protective amulets from loved ones pepper the superstitions of warriors across history. You've got people carrying around their mother's tears, their lovers' hair, things like that. I guess it's fitting for Dean, who's a lot like a soldier, to have a similar superstition and protective amulet.

III. The Characters

**a. The Darker Side of Sammy**

I'm a Dean-girl through and through but for some reason, I find more inspiration in writing things from Sam's view. I guess that can be attributed to the fact that I can relate more to Sam's heroic perspective of his older brother than I could relate with Dean. And I guess I also find his potential to be a much darker character very intriguing. They did such a good job in _Supernatural_ that this potential for darkness doesn't seem alien at all, it just feels like an actual, actual part of Sam: that he's driven by revenge, that he's always been single-minded, that he's an indulged younger brother who has the capacity for principled selfishness, that has the capacity to threaten and kill. I liked drawing these sides out, and they are just illustrations of how good intentions can really be achieved through dark ways, how hell can be paved with it, how a good man can become a bad one out of love.

**b. Dean's Hell**

I was wondering if my depiction of hell was too mild in this fic; I mean, where's the flames and the whips and all the other stuff? The most graphic depiction of hell I could think of was from the film _What Dreams May Come_. Creepy, intricate visuals there, just awe-inspiring. I was gonna use that as a springboard, until I decided Dean's never flinched at the physical torture, but found the non-physical ones more damaging. With that in mind, the hell bits became a study on how to break a soul instead.

I also hope I made the breakdown logical and sensible. I mean, it starts out with visions of his mom whom he loved but never got the chance to love as much as brother or father. And then moved onto his father, whose loss was tainted both by the loss-itself and by his guilt. And then by Sam, whom he loved above all else. I thought their losses would be magnified if Dean was treated to a more intimate knowledge of them first, so I added that in. After magnifying the loss, Dean decides he finds it less painful to suffer in their place than to live with them dead, so he appropriates all of their deaths as his own. In dying though, he recognizes that he'll hurt those he leaves behind so he appropriates that pain too. This makes him hyper-isolated, turning himself into the one dying and the one suffering the loss. And, in isolation, he just decides it's better not to have been born. So in so many words, that's how I decided to break him down, ending in a kind of spiritual suicide.

The part I find intriguing is that Dean's the one in hell but it's Sam who turns darker. As I wrote at the start of the fic, Dean's coping style was a sense of suicide and Sam's was murder. I guess _Home Road_ shows my perspective that as long as one of the brothers are in hell, then ultimately they both are. The different ways the two of them changed was an illustration of my theory in Chapter 6, where Dean was wondering what kind of demon he would be: the vicious, relentless one or that broken shell one. They both went to hell, they both became demonic (Sam as the dark, relentless and Dean as the broken shell), and in the end, they were both recovering, although Sam might not have known it.

**c. Ruby and the Gamble of Kripke's Female Characters**

Like many a rabid fangirl, I have the tendency to have reckless disdain for new female characters with extended, recurring and possibly-romantic interactions with the Winchesters. Oddly enough, after watching _No Rest for the Wicked_, the Ruby character turned fascinating for me not from a romantic angle, but it felt kind of like she just fit into their world, somehow. I've been trying to fish around in my head why... I guess I find the idea of her treading the line between good and evil and being a demon but also being different fascinating... and therefore, after he goes to hell, applicable to Dean (that he can both be categorically demonic and good at the same time). And so the character of Ruby came alive for me, because her being around gave a unique insight into one of the main characters that we love.

I was cautious as hell shoving her into the story but I figured, as long as I manage to convey that she fits in only as a salute to Dean, I should be safe, haha. Besides, note how _Home Road_ never even shows things from her perspective. The hell views are always from Dean's, I guess because I don't really understand this character or her true motivations. I just depicted her as far as it was relevant to the Winchesters.

**d. Bobby and the Company**

I actually almost regret the inclusion of Missouri and the Harvelles in this story which in afterthought, feels pronounced as they made their bulked, kind-of carelessly-written absence in the end. Originally, I put them there because the Lilith confrontation was supposed to be more tumultuous, with Bobby and Sam coming to get Dean in hell and the rest of the household protecting Dean's body in the house. I originally intended a big showdown, but went the quieter route.

On a lighter note, there's never _ever_ any regretting the inclusion of Bobby Singer in a fic, haha. There's something about this actor and this character, I don't know, haha. The tough love, the gruff exterior but the unquestionable affection... he's just so distinctly homey and assuring that I not only included him, the fic begins with Bobby's eyes, and is often told from how he looks at the world.

**e. The Original Characters**

As always, my main concern is just to ensure they're not intrusive or unnecessary. Of course the doctor and the EMTs were important in terms of medical function. They also served to highlight Sam's emerging darkness, his desperation, and this included endangering the annoying teenager. Jessie Brennan was also used functionally as a handle on her father, and creatively as an illustration of Sam's capacity for danger, and also just to show a sense of karma to Sam's precocious little-brother nature.

Down in hell, the notable figures would be the Watcher and Lucian. I found the idea of a Watcher fascinating, reminiscent of those quirky characters from _The Matrix_ series who are just around really and know a ton of stuff. I have an appreciation for campy quirkiness, and if you've read my other fic _One Week_, you might actually recognize that the Watcher of _Home Road_ is a lot like the Dissatisfied Crossroads Demon of that fic.

Lucian, on the other hand, is a cool hand, much like Azazel had been. Now, I'm a very independent, empowered modern gal, but that also means I'm self-aware enough to admit that while I might be sounding a little chauvinistic, I had been hoping for a big male baddie instead of little Lilith. I don't know... I guess I wasn't comfortable with the idea of our heroes pounding on a little girl, undying evil bitch though she may be. So Lucian is a throwback to the more strategic, more compelling villainous figure of the YED, who's willing to bide his time, and seal deals and not just be a brutal killer. In the episode _Sin City_, the demon told Dean they weren't very different from humans, and that they too, were just fighting for their beliefs. I couldn't imagine Lilith having these attributes, I just found her impulsive and senselessly violent, as opposed to YED's grander schemes. That's what I set out to make Lucian like, and I guess that's what makes a villain more terrifying, if he had a very tight sense of control and a cool head.

IV. Massive Thanks and Replies

Want to give a shout out to who all who took the time to read the story. It's long, it's intricate, it's flawed and everyone's busy so I'm very thankful for anyone who took the time to read, and **especially** to all who reviewed. As always, I want to make absolute certain sure I get to mention everybody, so if I got cross-eyed and missed your name, please call me out on it!

**Massive thanks to reviewers**: allison lightning, apieceofcake, cursedgirl, helinahandcart, kirallie, kristy, Ms. Severus Kenobi, SciFiRN and zuimar!

**Thanks also go out to the following reviewers, with some notes on some of their commentary:**

**Krimson**: Thanks for the constructive crit on the omniscient writer thing. I promise I'll keep it in mind, especially as it's very empowering and liberating, haha! I also know what you meant when you said you almost didn't read this because you don't usually read fics without Dean; I feel the same way, haha :) As I mentioned in the afterword, though, I like him as a reader but as I writer I keep going Sam's way, haha, oh well :) I'm glad you found my summary interesting enough to give _Home Road_ a shot; it's the summary I originally wanted but I changed it when it wasn't drawing readers in. I still haven't drawn a lot in, haha, but the change might have had some impact, haha.

**Lyin'**: I'm very, very happy you find my version of extreme Sam dead-on. It's relieving to me because he's just so nuanced and difficult to portray, haha. Dean as he is depicted in the last three seasons is so straightforward in his love for his family and the things he's willing to do for them (not-so-straightforward starting season 4 and its mysteries it seems from Kripke and co.'s teasers, of course, but still, so far); Sam is just so much harder to figure out, especially this dark-side thing, which is always a gamble, so thank you for letting me know you find my version acceptable :) On another matter, thanks also for being open to my original characters. The show has tons of people with whom the Winchesters run into, so I find them inevitable in fan-dom, and the most that I can do is to just make them as un-intrusive as possible, and make sure they have functions in the story to justify their place.

**Mandy/PhoenixDragonDreamer**: Thank you so so so so incredibly much for the constant support and the passion. You're one of my major fuels and I'm just so worried that I'll reach a point of disappointing you, haha, but thank you. One note, though: you asked how Kripke is gonna top this and my answer is: Easy, haha! He always manages to put one over us. I don't know how, but he just does, doesn't he?

**Neonchica:** Thank you for taking the considerable time to share your posting advice. Timing is very important indeed, and I have made changes since reading your input. I think there have been improvements. Thank you!

**PADavis:** I am as thankful as always for your support and perceptive comments. They really make me think, and they really inspire me to work. The same parts you cited as enjoying are the ones that I myself consider some of my favorite parts! The description of Sam as a naturally self-absorbed baby brother thing, for instance I just could see that same trait in so many indulged little brothers I've run across in real life, haha, so that description had to make its way into the story. I also felt it was fair and realistic to instill in him a kind-of helpless selfishness and determination. I mean I love Dean, but Sam is just a joy to write, haha. On another note, I did enjoy writing Dean's decline too... as I mentioned above, I was concerned that the progression of his decision wouldn't be logical so I really worked hard on that and I'm glad you appreciate it. Oh! And I am sorry about the stocky-thing... I guess I use the adjective loosely. I know he's tall, we all know they're gorgeous and I'll stop before I steal your soap box, haha, but you know what I mean :)

**Rhesa:** You are one rare fan-girl, haha! Appreciating original characters and Ruby? I think we're both odd, haha :) But thank you... that's a relief to hear. It's always tricky, putting outsiders in the very clique-ish Winchester world and I guess I took that risk and I appreciate the support :)

**Stoneage Woman:** Hello there, old friend! You mentioned you found the interaction between Dean and Ruby interesting. I had the best time writing that down (I think you can tell, haha) since it was an outlet for just being clever since the verbal sparring is a very intricate game to them in _Home Road_. As they talk, they're juggling hope and distrust, a bad history, a turbulent future, internal and external struggle and, of course, they're just trying to keep a handle on their pride. You can't seem too needy, you can't be disarmed, even as the hellish situation drove you helpless to your knees. It was a crazy exercise, drove me nuts, trying to find a way to make them get along without fans raising their eyebrows and finding it improbable. Thank you for reading through and letting me know what you thought about it.

**Von:** One of the things you said amused me so much because it had a ring of undeniable truth: you said that no matter the outcome, as long as the brothers were together, getting out of hell or staying, you were up for it. Imagine, part of the consideration set in happy endings is for the characters to remain in hell :) And yet in this fan-dom, many would seriously, seriously agree, including me. The brotherly dynamic is just so well-drawn that ultimately, hell is only hell if they're apart, and the _Supernatural_ team's talent in developing that relationship to the point where hell becomes bearable depending on the company just deserves a standing ovation! Thank you for sharing the comment and your perception :)

V. My Next Project

Well I kind of have a tricky track record actualizing this, haha, but nevertheless, this is the new story keeping me up at night, which may or may not be continued or concluded. It's about 90 percent done, I think, but I can't seem to find a way to end it. Anyway, hope to see you if it does come up. 'Til the next post!

Author:Mirrordance

Title: The Least I Can Do

Summary:Whenever he doubted himself, he drew on the memory of his son, battered but unbeaten on the stand,telling Social Services to give him back to the best dad in the world. Dean is 16 and Sam is 12. The Winchesters fight to stay together.

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**The Least I Can Do**

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PREVIEW

" " "

"Coffee?" Sam asked him. John looked past the cup up to the already-considerable height of his twelve-year-old.

"Thanks, son," he said gruffly, taking the cup from the other's hand. He took a good, scalding gulp. It was hot and strong, more caffeine that coffee, more bitter than flavorful. It was not quite the way he liked his coffee, but just the way he got used to it. He put it down on the table beside him, only to find there was almost no room, what with six cups already sitting there, all in some form of middle-finish. His brows rose in surprise.

"Sorry dad," Sam said with a grimace, and he was moving so jerkily he wouldn't even sit down with his father in the waiting room, "I was walking around, kept thinking I must have been gone a long time, thought I'd get you something. I guess I haven't been gone that long after all."

"You should lay off of these for awhile," John said, mildly.

"What? -Oh," said Sam, "I actually haven't had any yet."

"At the rate you're going?" John asked, "That's a bitch."

Sam smiled, marginally, before his face shrank into itself again, "What's taking them so long?" He growled, sat down beside his father for two seconds, before he popped back up to his face and began to pace again. Again. This was not a new conversation. John watched him dart back and forth. Sam did not go from one end of the waiting room to the other, but set up invisible lines that he kept to religiously. Once, a nurse got in his way. He literally paused, and waited for her to move aside, before continuing in the same, trodden path. His Sam was really an odd one.

"Where'd you get all the money from, anyway?" John asked, in an effort to calm his son a little bit.

"I didn't have any," Sam said with a distracted shrug, walking, walking. John thought there was something about him that was Napoleonic, intense and young and restless, "I just stood there pretending I lost my buck. Someone's always willing to give a kid a cup of coffee for his dad."

"Seven times?" John asked, skeptically, not sounding impressed.

"Of course not," Sam replied, still preoccupied, "The other times I hung out at the cancer wing, let people there make their own conclusions and feel sorry for me and whomever I'm visiting there."

Shaggy hair and sad eyes. Yeah, John thought, That would do it. Sam tended to have that intelligent, precocious orphan look.

"There are eight floors to this hospital, dad," Sam rambled, "About three machines to a floor so that's twenty-four vending machines in total to try something new with. Not counting charitable cafeteria ladies and fully-stocked doctor's lounges."

I think I raised a con-man.

Or Dean did, John corrected himself.

He had to stop kidding himself that Dean hadn't done most of the rearing on this one, for all its good and bad. He felt really sour about that, sure. What father wouldn't, especially after that last slip-up, Sam calling Dean "dad." But then again, he had made Dean, didn't he, so there must have been a certain level of transference there.

Dean...

God.

Sammy's right. What the hell is taking so long?

"Mister Winchester?"

He jumped right off of his seat. It still surprised him sometimes, being called by his real name. They were in the middle of one of their rare forays into semi-normalcy. John was nursing an injury, and Dean was working up to finish high school. It made sense to just lie low for a little while. As much as possible, he fought for his boys to finish high school under their real names. While he wanted them on the road with him, he also found their studies important and useful for the job. That it lent them have some semblance of normal for the present and a chance at normal for the future closed the deal. It tended to be damned inconvenient, but when was his life ever easy?

"How is he?" Sam blurted out, breathless, as if he was bursting out of his skin.

"He's stable," the doctor said, and John allowed himself a single breath of relief before he made a step toward the doctor.

"I wanna see him."

"Mister Winchester..." the doctor hesitated, biting at the corner of his lip, and motioning for John to sit back down.

"Everything else can wait, doc," Sam added literally shaking a leg in anxiety, "Is there something wrong with him? Can't we see him now?"

John watched the doctor's face carefully. He's done enough investigations to know when he was about to hear something he may not want to. The doctor before him was young, had a kind of careful fire in his eyes, as if he was angry and reining it in just-barely. He expected this, somewhere deep inside, that one place where his father's heart feared and cowered. That one place he was helpless. It's just that he did not let himself think about it until he was sure Dean was going to be fine. But this was not the first time he'd been looked at like this, no. Like he was some kind of a criminal.

John jerked his head at Sam. "You can go ahead, son."

Ever-perceptive, Sam's brows furrowed. "Dad...?"

"Sam," John said, sternly, "Your brother needs you, all right? Let me just talk to his doc here for a moment."

It was easy as pie to get rid of Sam even at his nosiest. All he had to say was Your brother needs you and it was a card John could always, always rely on.

"Where?" Sam urgently asked the doctor. The man called for a nurse and gave her instructions to bring Sam to the recovery room, before he turned toward John.

"Mister Winchester," he said, setting his jaws, "I think you know what this is going to be about."

John put his hands up in a kind-of resigned manner. "It's not the first time I've run into a well-intentioned idiot who tells me I can't look after my boys."

The doctor crossed his arms over his chest. "So you know I have to ask you questions."

"Yeah..." John said, sinking back to his seat. His knees felt weak, weary from the injury he's been nursing for days and the worry he's been strangled with the last few hours.

"How exactly did your son become injured?" the doctor – Doctor Dante, his name tag read – asked him, as he settled down a seat away from John, clipboard and pen and paper in hand.

There was this haunted house, John's mind filled in, wearily dry, I thought it was a fairly easy job, that even on the mend I could handle it. 'Sides, I was pissed as hell at both my sons so I left 'em behind, thought I'd do this one on my own. I was kissing my ass goodbye when I realized that he followed me, and his impressionable younger brother followed him. He saved my life. Just before the roof fell right under his feet. Kid tended to be unlucky that way...

"He's a kid," John grunted, "It's an abandoned house with a local legend. These two things have a way of finding each other. And then he fell."

"He tends to fall down a lot," Dante said with a decidedly suspicious frown, "There's a lot of damage on his body, Mister Winchester, some very serious and many more from long before tonight's fall. I consulted with a forensic doctor. But if you can furnish us with medical records--"

"I'm not good at keeping 'em," John said.

"Then we can go through a detailed medical history together," said Dante.

"What?" John snapped, "Gimme enough rope to hang myself with? You ask me, I tell you what's going on, you twist it around... like I said, this isn't the first time I've run into the likes of you."

"You were investigated several years ago. They said that you were an acceptable father," Dante said, "I looked your file up."

'Acceptable' father, John thought sadly, feeling as if he was stabbed in the gut.

"Same thing's gonna come up this time," John said, though he had a cold feeling about this round. Falling under the eye of Family Services a second time never turned out very well for anybody.

"I have to let you know," said Dante, "That I'm filing a child abuse complaint against you with protective services."

"You are?" snapped John sarcastically, "That's surprising."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester," said Dante, "But I am doing what I think is best for your children."

"A life without me, right?" growled John, wanting to floor the bastard, "That's fucking grand of you." His mind was a whirl, he was going to start throwing punches except that would have made things infinitely worse. He rose to his feet and took a deep, calming breath.

"If you don't got anything else to say," he growled, "Take me to my son."

TO BE CONTINUED...


End file.
